


Grand Allegro

by eve_strand



Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ballet, Angst, Ballet, Competition, Fluff, M/M, Rating will most definitely change, Romeo and Juliet References, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2020-03-27 21:23:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 114,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19006570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eve_strand/pseuds/eve_strand
Summary: Lucas Lallemant is a last year student at l’École de danse de l’Opéra national de Paris .Love comes his way, inconvenient but paramount all the same.





	1. Grand Allegro 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a multichapter work that will update weekly. Until the end of time. Bisous (especially to my muses in SUF).
> 
> Kudos and Komments are highly appreciated ♥️
> 
> Written with utmost respect for the creators and characters of the original work.

January 31. 20:51

 _l’École de danse de l’Opéra national de Paris_ // it’s reciprocal

Lucas draws his legs in underneath the bench he is sitting on, one of his feet drumming restlessly. There is only he and Eliott left in the changing room. He has tried so hard to avoid this situation, for weeks now. _Eliott surely thinks I hate him,_ he thinks. Which he did, initially. But that’s not true, anymore.

Lucas is an animated person; that’s how he knows himself, but around Eliott he is rendered mute. He doesn’t necessarily want to talk to him, and even if he wanted to, he just couldn’t _._ Eliott’s mere presence invokes the utter inability to form a coherent sentence. Lucas is equal parts frustrated and relieved each time another moment of possible interaction slides by, without anything but possibly weird glances exchanged back and forth between them. Truth be told, it is difficult to know whether one wants to talk to someone or not, when one simply is unable to. If he could, would he?

 _So damn tired_ , Lucas rubs his forehead and tries to push his demons away. He stands up and starts to change out of his attire. There is no help for it now, here they are. He has to say something; they have to say something or he couldn’t live with the weirdness. Lucas shoots a glance at Eliott, who carelessly has discarded all his clothes in a heap on the floor. Lucas has already opened his mouth to speak, but the vision of Eliott’s pale, translucent skin, sculpted muscles, all planes and angles, makes him hesitate and all that comes out of him is a too loud exhale that Eliott hears and looks over to him. Casually. How the fuck is he casual, when Lucas can’t even talk and apparently not _not_ talk either. “So from where did you transfer, again?” he manages, while folding his t-shirt against his chest, holding it with his chin. Was it weird to start talking to people while they were naked? Too late, anyway.

“SAB” Elliot says and glances up. Lucas nods and purses his lips. _Makes sense,_ he thinks. Eliott’s athletic and quick style, bordering on acrobatic, is just the style of School of American Ballet. The common criticism from the Parisian stable would be that School of American Ballet trains athletes - not dancers. Not artists. Lucas had previously been inclined to agree but after watching Eliott take on Romeo and Juliet and almost all of the rehearsals the last two weeks, he knows that it is a depreciative simplification of the truth. Eliott is outstanding. Lucas recognizes it but he doesn’t have the proper words to describe his effortless, yet intense style, because his vocabulary is based on his own schooling, which is different.  Eliott wraps a towel around his waist and sits down on the bench next to his gear, across the room from Lucas. “Was there for the last 8 years, but … “ he trails off.

“Then you got …Romeo,” Lucas fills in. He really fucking hopes that bottomless envy that he feels doesn’t transmit to his voice.

Eliott doesn’t reply immediately. “It contributed,” he says, seemingly pensive. Lucas scoffs, incredulous. _Seriously_? He makes it sound like it was just one factor, which he could add or remove from the equation; like it was optional and not essential. If you got a lead role at the Palais Garnier you fucking took it. Eliott doesn’t elaborate, other than saying “I’m from here, from Paris.”

Lucas knows that. He is too concerned he might say something rude if he opens his mouth again, so he doesn’t.

“But I’m not sure I can belong here again”, says Elliot. It makes Lucas look up at him. When Eliott realizes Lucas is waiting for a continuation, he shrugs his shoulders and goes on, “Things change. I was just a kid when I lived here last time. Home is… I don’t know, in fact, right now”. He smiles a little and stands up.

Lucas feels virginal suddenly; he has only ever lived in Paris. Usually, it makes him feel like a cultured, metropolitan man. But he is not sure just what he is, since recently.

“What about you. Do you love Paris?” Elliot asks. Lucas is a little taken aback by the question.

“I don’t … I don’t know. I’m here for the dance, still. That’s why I’m here.” Lucas shrugs. Nobody has asked him that before. Eliott doesn’t answer at first, just looks at Lucas searchingly.

“But you love dancing?”

Lucas can only nod. Of course he loves dancing, but anyone at their level would know that the dance can act simultaneously as a blessing and a curse. It is the one thing Lucas knows how to do well, arguably better than most, and still it is always bordering on the unattainable. And all of a sudden, someone like Eliott could sweep in from god knows where and simply steal the thunder.

“It’s reciprocal”, says Eliott, still looking at Lucas. Lucas, standing only in his tricots felt uncomfortable. He tries to deflect the compliment just because he knows that he doesn’t deserve it, not from Eliott, who he has spent so much energy trying to ignore the last couple of weeks that it actually has exhausted him a bit.  He shrugs and quietly curses the lopsided smile that creeps out over his lips. _Such a sucker for compliments._ He sits down, too, and tries to think of how to either continue or get out of the conversation, but Eliott anticipates him and gets up. He walks past right in front of Lucas, with a confusing smirk on his lips and then he disappears into the showers.

 

Friday 18 January. 15:05

 _l’École de danse de l’Opéra national de Paris_ // le premier danseur

Lucas reads the white paper in utter disbelief. He is aware of some people around him noticing the lack of his name printed next to _premier danseur_ ; he feels their sympathetic eyes on his face. His first thought is, that there must have been a mistake, only there are never any mistakes made regarding the announcements. It wouldn’t happen, not now and not ever. Slowly, he feels tingles start to creep their way up his spine, neck and skull – but not the pleasant kind; more like the chills that your body succumbs to while fighting the flu. He has to get out of there, so he turns, excuses his way through the crowd. Someone calls for him – it sounds like Basile, but Lucas doesn’t stop. His face flushes embarrassingly pink and tears starts to burn in his eyes, competing with the rage that begins to claw on his insides. He makes it to the nearest staircase, runs down two floors like he knows where he is going and he sits down. _Breathe_ , he tells himself. His temper scares him sometimes, and he is on some semiconscious level already worried about how he will deal with this. Emotionally.

“I’m so fucking stupid, stupid,” he mutters and rubs the heels of his palms violently over his eyes, until he starts seeing stars and weird patterns behind his eyelids. This, is him being robbed of the opportunity that would have taken him straight into the permanent stall of the Garnier. A few weeks ago, when Niels said they needed more time before making the announcement he had thought nothing of it. He had assumed it was about someone else, some poor fucker who would not get the part they had hoped for. That was how confident he had been. He puts his palms together in front of his lips, as if in prayer and tries to calm his breathing. He starts debating, _What did I do wrong,_ but it hurts like a knife to his chest to even try to go there, so he shuts that line of thought down. His phone vibrates; Bas wants to know where he is. He doesn’t answer, but stands up after a few shaky breaths. He doesn’t want to meet anyone; not talk to anyone. He quickly cancels his plans of going to the _soirée_ happening later; the kick-off of the spring semester. Shutting off his phone, he takes the rest of the stairs, two steps at a time, down to the basement. He escapes towards the catacombs underneath the school, heading in the direction of the wardrobe and changing rooms in a haze. The thought of the hours; the blood, sweat and tears he has put into his senior year, with Romeo Montague like a mirage in the distance, strikes him like a punch to the guts and a choked cry escapes his throat as he pushes through the swing door. Tears spills over and he stops walking, pushing his hand violently through his hair, yelling _PUTAIN_ into the empty, concrete-enclosed corridor. _And who the fuck got it, anyway?_ He huffs, an almost-laugh in disbelief. He didn’t even register the name of the _connard_ who they’d chosen instead. His mind went wild with envy, searching every corner of his consciousness for the likely culprit. Interrupted by a sudden wave of nausea he starts walking robot-like again. _Just get my stuff, and go._

 


	2. Grand Allegro 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucas deals with the unpleasant news best he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artwork by the phenomenal Mme F. Merci ma belle ♥️  
> Disclaimer: None of the images in use are mine. They are copyrighted and should not be spread outside of this forum.
> 
> Note that Lucas' thoughts, the chat conversation and various French phrases and words are written in italics. I realize it may cause confusion, but I hope it won't. Don't hesitate to ask me if questions arise ♥️
> 
> This is part of a multichapter work that will update weekly. Until the end of time. Bisous (especially to my muses in SUF).
> 
> Kudos and Komments are highly appreciated ♥️
> 
> Written with utmost respect for the creators and characters of the original work.

Friday 18 January. 18:45

 _The apartment_ // rehab

By the time he gets home the anger has subsided and given way to a gray, monotone melancholy. He has showered, put on his sweats and sunken down in the sofa. And he plans to stay there, isolated from the rest of the world for the remainder of this bad joke of a day. Before long, however,  the compulsive need to check his phone arises, so he turns it on. It starts vibrating immediately, as he’d predicted. Considerate and supportive texts from the gang. Still a little bit too emotionally fragile to deal with anything social media, he starts responding to Basile, Arthur and Yann. One part of him feels like shit for being this upset in front of them, because none of them had even been considered for Romeo, but they didn’t complain. They just kept fighting. On the other hand, everyone else must be as surprised as Lucas that he wasn’t chosen. Except for the fucker who took his part, and the board – they knew. How humiliating. _That idiot board full of idiots._ He still hasn’t figured out what he will do when he sees Niels next time. He just hopes it will be later, a lot later. Preferably in a year or so, when the risk of exploding in frustration in front of him has decreased. Lucas had valued his relationship, which he deemed as close, to the artistic director. He _believes_ in Lucas, or so he said.

_Arthur: I know you feel like shit but you should come tonight._

_Lucas: Don’t think so. Really not in the mood_

_Arthur: Come on._

_Basile: Otherwise we’re coming there_

_Lucas: Is that a threat?_

_Lucas:  I appreciate but seriously, it’s not a good idea. I wanna set that fucking place on fire. Sry_

_Arthur: Don’t worry we’ll make sure the matches stays with the adults_

_Yann: Heard they still haven’t announced the Nurse. Thought of u <3_

_Lucas has to laugh at that, albeit reluctantly._

_Lucas: I’m flattered_

_Lucas: You don’t want me there tonight. I appreciate it, I really do, but … I can’t_

The chat goes dead. Lucas senses his friends engaging in a digital tête-à-tête on the matter, beyond his presumed knowledge.

_Yann: “I’m picking you up at 19.”_

Lucas doesn’t bother to respond. They don’t listen to him and frankly, they probably shouldn’t. They have known each other for ten years. Ten years of never-ending days at the barre and on the floor; of sprained ankles, bleeding feet, burning legs and knees that felt like they should belong to someone at least twice their age. Ten years of endless hours of music, art and endorphins; of doing what they were doing with everything that they were. Every fiber of their beings striving towards that same goal; embodying the mutualism of movement and music. Ideally.

 

Friday 18 January 20:15

 _the apartment_ // lui

At some point, he dozes off. Startled awake by the buzzer, he sits up in the sofa, with hair on end and dried up drool on his cheek. He may have been asleep for five years, judging by how he feels. He cracks the joints around the vertebrae in his neck and stands up, just as the buzzer echoes through the apartment again.

“Wait…!” he says in the general direction of the door. The conversation with his friends resurfaces and he realizes it must be Yann, already. Sighing, he presses the button to let him in. While waiting for Yann to enter the apartment he relieves himself in the bathroom and splashes water over his face to wake up. He is pale, marks from the seams of the sofa still tracing his left cheek. He genuinely feels that he should not attend the _soirée_ tonight. Then again, if someone took him by the hand and led him he would happily go anywhere, no questions asked. Just away, if someone takes the wheel.

Yann lets himself in. “Allo?” Lucas dries off his face and leaves the bathroom. He low-key wants to hug Yann but is too sore to be that obvious with his need for comfort; as if the whole world has offended him. “Where are the others?” asks Yann, referring to Lucas’ flatmates.

“Don’t know.” Yann takes in Lucas sorry appearance for a while and then nods in the direction of his room. “Go ahead, get dressed.”

“I don’t want to go.”

Yann sighs and approaches him. “Look, I can’t imagine what you must be feeling. Or maybe I can.” Lucas shifts where he stands; a wave of emotion breaking in his chest and then receding. Yann kisses his forehead and gives his arm an encouraging slap.

“Either way, we’re going. Not leaving you alone tonight and I’m not staying in either.”

He really knows he shouldn’t go, but there is that offered hand. He won’t be able to pull himself out of his misery, that is a given. He hesitates a few moments and then says “Can’t I go like this,” gesturing at his sweats.

Yann looks at him and scoffs. “Not if you hope to be up for _premier_ again anytime soon” he jokes, but sobers at Lucas expression. “Too soon?”

Lucas isn’t that sensitive, but apparently unable to hide the sting. He waves disarmingly and starts for his room. “I don’t know. I just can’t fucking…” He stops and bites his lip. Yann follows him and leans against the door frame. Lucas pulls out a drawer and starts rummaging through his clothes, maybe slightly more forceful than necessary.

“Yeah, same. What happened?”

“Fuck if I know,” says Lucas and pulls out a t-shirt. “Nobody told me anything. I knew when I saw the announcement.”

Yann watches him thoughtfully. He opens his mouth, as if to say something, but closes it again. When he remains quiet, Lucas picks up on it. “What?”

“You saw who got it?” Yann knows he has to tread carefully. This stuff hurts you where you live, no matter how your ego works.

Lucas swallows against the thick burn in his throat and starts to pull on his t-shirt for distraction. “No.” He doesn’t say that he doesn’t want to know, because that wouldn’t be true. He doesn’t say he wants to know either, because neither that would’ve be true. He gets stuck with his head somewhere inside the shirt and struggles a bit to get out. When he pops out, his eyes fall on Yann again, who is uncharacteristically quiet. Pulling his eyebrows together, Lucas scans his friend. “Do you…“he interrupts himself, as a thought dawns on him. “Is it you?” he asks with trepidation.

“Me? No, it’s not me!” Yann laughs and shakes his head.

“Well, I don’t know,” Lucas chuckles. “You’re acting weird. Could have been.”

“Yeah…whatever; it’s not me.” Yann makes a face and explains; “It’s a shitty situation.”

All of a sudden, Lucas really needs to know. “But, tell me,” he encourages with a feeling of impending doom.

“You know the American? Or French-American; I don’t know.” When Lucas frown doesn’t change, Yann goes on. “The guy who transferred, Demaury.”

Lucas squints in confusion before another wave hits him across the chest. _Him?_ He searches his memory frantically; he has barely seen the guy. Then his face falls; it doesn’t matter. Someone else got the part; he knows that without a doubt. It is just so indisputable when there is an actual person connected to the fact.

“Oh. Oh. Okay.”

Yann watches him with a look of regret on his face. “It’s better that you know. It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

As much as Lucas appreciates his friend’s attempt at rationalizing, he knows that they both know; it does indeed matter. Everything matters. They just have to live with that.

“Have you seen him?” asks Lucas, as in _have you seen him dance and how good is he._

“Briefly. Couldn’t tell, I had back-to-back classes so I left.”

Lucas nods. At least I don’t have to know him, he thinks.

 

Friday 18 January. 20:50.

 _L’Opera Restaurant. Palais Garnier_ // ice-cream palace

Lucas vaguely remembers associating the Palais Garnier Opera to ice-cream when he as a child saw it for the first time. Maybe because ice-cream was the most beautiful thing he knew, up until then. Or because of the white and gold, the smooth pillars and marble draped like veil above the entry. He still thinks about it each time he goes. The ice-cream palace.

Yann and Lucas saunters down the street along the east façade of the building; approaching the outside patio with scattered guests, glasses in hands. Yann and Lucas are late. Lucas slows down instinctively as he scans the crowd. He nearly turns in his steps and heads back up the street in a reflexive response to seeing the people he knows from school. “Come on,” Yann says over his breath slightly behind him. “ _Allez._ ” Lucas sets his jaw, sticks his hands in his pockets and follows Yann unenthusiastically the last bit, looking around for the rest of his friends while they make their way toward the crowd.

“Salut!” Emma, Manon, and Daphne are gathered in a little warmth preserving triangle, opening up to greet Yann and Lucas. He kisses them and tries to look what he thought of as normal; to no avail. “I’m sorry, Lucas,” Emma says discreetly and eyes him.

 Lucas shrugs. “Thanks.” What was one supposed to say to that, anyway?

“Ca va?” she mouths then.

He uses his go-to response again, lifting his shoulder with a bit more emphasis to underline the uncertainty. She purses her lips and sends a kiss through the air to him.

“Ohlàlà. You look like a snack Lucas but I gotta say; you could have left the funeral energy at home” Daphne interrupts. Lucas is dressed in black t-shirt, black jacket and black pants. He isn’t worried about his style. He could choose clothes for these events in his sleep, the dress code is always the same; between smart casual and semi-formal.

“Give a guy a break. We came to get drunk and talk shit about people, not to please your sense of fashion” says Yann.

“I’m talking about the mood”. Daphne offers Lucas a cigarette which he accepts after some brief hesitation.

“Well what do you expect?”

“I’m just trying to say it’s –“

“Okay, guys, stop arguing!” Lucas interjects. “Daphy, try not to be jealous of my style,” he grins. “As for the mood, I’ll be fine. I just need some time. And a drink, a drink would be good.”

Emma takes pity in his solemn appearance even though he is trying to pull a charade, and squeezes his shoulders. “We sit together. You’re between Manon and me.”

A glass of champagne is handed to him. He sips it and closes his eyes briefly at the dry, bready sparkles. More people arrive; taxi doors are closing and the steady murmur of voices gradually increases in amplitude. Someone bumps into Lucas back, making wine splash out on his shirt as he tries to rebalance the glass. “ _Putain_ ,” he says and wipes his front with his hand and instinctively peeks over his shoulder when someone says _Oh pardon_. But he can’t work out who the voice belongs to before it is swallowed by a swarm of arriving guests. The sky has turned purple while they have been standing there. Daphne hands him her napkin and says; “Let’s go dancers. Inside.”

Friday 18 January. 21.20

 _L’Opera Restaurant, Palais Garnier_ // friends

Inside the restaurant the crowd induces a sense of anonymity and Lucas feels less uncomfortable. It smells of cigar, floor polisher, velvet and spilled champagne (although, that could be Lucas’ shirt). There are the students, the _terminals_ , the dance teachers, the principal, the artistic director, the rest of the board, the Donors (basking in the attention directed at them by the board) and the local politicians. All in all, you could find better parties. But there is free food and booze and if they are lucky dancers from the Opéra ballet grace them with their presence.

Lucas spots Niels and his jaw clenches; unprepared he postpones the confrontation and drags Yann with him to a table far from the entrance. He does not want to mingle; he wants to anchor himself somewhere safe with his friends. Lucas never feels better than when someone takes care of him, even though he has been living away from home for 2 years. He knows there’s something wrong about that so he doesn’t say it loud, not even to himself, but it’s true anyway. And he craves it tonight; he even has a legit reason, so they sit down along one of the oval tables before anyone else has.

After the first glass of sparkling wine he welcomes the slight buzz blissfully. Chloé makes her way toward them, through the maze of dark mahogany chairs and white-clothed tables. He’s not sure what the others know, or what they think of Chloé, but nobody seems to mind when she drops her hard-case envelop bag on the table and sits down across to the right of him. She looks beautiful, he thinks, but quickly recalls their less-than-amicable last interaction when she sends a frosty look his way, before she strikes up a conversation with Arthur. Manon raises her eyebrows and smirks. “Adding to the prevailing mood: divorce energy” she says.

“Don’t know… it’s nothing serious I think. It’s, just …you know” Lucas shrugs; he doesn’t want to say it, but Manon gets it and mouths “Chloé.”

“Right,” confirms Lucas, despite having the feeling that it’s probably not _just Chloé_ ; he strongly suspects he was not a wonderful person to date. She hadn’t been satisfied and Lucas had enjoyed it the way he enjoys things. Then a rumor said he had kissed someone else so that was the end. Frosty, indeed. “How’s your ankle,” he asks Manon when he notices her massaging it absentmindedly.

“It’s better. It’s definitely better. As long as the rotation is in place, it is fine; I just have to mind my technique” she says but doesn’t look convinced. “But, it’s weak, it’s like I lost all strength.”

 “But, of course it is weak. It has only been four weeks. You will feel that for a while, you know.”’

“I know, I know. At least I’m dancing again.”

Lucas understands, so he drops it. “Be careful, Snow White,” he says, referring to her exceptional interpretation of the Mayorov choreography last semester. Her injury just before Christmas had brutally and effectively ruined her whole spring season; at least that’s the last Lucas heard of it.

The service hasn’t started yet. “You want something from the bar?” he asks and gets up. Manon shakes her head and wiggles her half full glass. “My ankle, remember? Can’t even trust it sober.”

Going to the bar, Lucas is careful to avoid meeting anyone’s gaze. The bartender is busy so he waits. He tries to summon a feeling of gratitude for being where he is. Lucas does not come from money or from generations of dancers. He was raw but unpolished talent, discovered by chance. His teacher’s protégée before the age of nine, he came to the School on a scholarship. He should thank his lucky star for that. It is difficult to unreservedly love something that so rarely loves you back.

He orders vodka and mineral water. Drinking hard liquor makes him feel like a man and that would be good because maybe then he could also take this recent fiasco like a man. And not as the extra, petty man-boy that he was. He is interrupted by a cool hand and a quick pat on his shoulder. “Lucas.”

“Niels.”

As soon as Lucas sees him, the thick swelling in his throat is back. He won’t give anyone the, even momentary, pleasure of seeing him fall apart over this. Niels is quiet at first, fingering his bow tie while looking at the menu of cocktails. Lucas steadies his gaze in front of him; watching the barman work.

“It couldn’t be you, this time.”

Lucas remains stoic. He resents him fiercely. “I got that,” he says.

“It’s not the right time to go into details,” Niels says, as if Lucas had asked. He wants to ask, though. He wants to ask why and he wants to ask about Eliott Demaury. _Who is he, anyway._ Niels slides up next to Lucas in front of the bar.

“I would’ve appreciated a heads-up.” 

“I understand your predicament, Lucas, I really do. “ Niels corrects his glasses and orders. “But I think you will come to understand, and to like him, once you’re over the disappointment.”

Lucas snorts but quiets himself instantly. Niels presence is authoritative, and he is not Lucas’ friend. Whatever kinship had existed between them lately has been annihilated anyway. He might as well be a stranger to Lucas, but it is his professor and artistic leader nonetheless.

He peers at Lucas over the brim of his glasses.

“You will be working together. It may or may not please you, but that won’t change the fact.”

 Lucas grabs his drinks from the bar, more than ready for the conversation to be over.

“You are fearless, Lucas. Use that now,” Niels continues, turning to him. “You’re going to need it.”

Lucas feels bereft of words, save for _You can shove Mercutio up your ass, I’m Romeo_. But he says _Bonne soirée_ instead and waits until Niels turns back to the bar, signaling that they have finished talking.

 


	3. Grand Allegro 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the unknown one arises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artwork by the phenomenal Mme F. Merci ma belle ♥️  
> Disclaimer: None of the images in use are mine. They are copyrighted and should not be spread outside of this forum.
> 
> Dear reader,  
> while I do have knowledge and experience of ballet and being a student at a classical dance school, some things have been altered to a less realistic respresentation for the purpose of creating an appealing story.
> 
> Note that Lucas' thoughts, the chat conversation and various French phrases and words are written in italics. I realize it may cause confusion, but I hope it won't. Don't hesitate to ask me if questions arise ♥️
> 
> This is part of a multichapter work that will update a couple of time each week. Until the end of time. Bisous (especially to my muses in SUF).
> 
> Kudos and Komments are highly appreciated ♥️
> 
> Written with utmost respect for the creators and characters of the original work.

 

 

 

Friday 18 January. 21.36

 _L’Opera Restaurant. Palais Garnier l’opera de Paris_ // fuck them

The discussion revolves around the spring semester’s contemporary program when Lucas returns to the table. A conversation he can let himself be gently rocked in. In fact, it brings relief to everyone; there is no friction, no thorny betrayal or unresolved traumas there. The contemporary pieces are communal and they don’t compete. It is a protected zone, lacking rivalry. They might have strangled each other years ago if it wasn’t for that.

Arthur catches Lucas attention across the table. He put his fingers to his mouth and nods towards the terrace.

“I shouldn’t, really” he says as they make their way through the restaurant.

“Nobody should,” says Arthur. “But I’m not nobody. I’m Arthur, the courtier” he remarks with a feigned posh mannerism. Romeo and Juliet is the second time Arthur is assigned a minor role. Still, Lucas can’t tell any difference in their level of skill. He doesn’t like to think about that, because it makes his advancement seem so arbitrary that it leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

Lucas throws his arm around Arthur’s shoulders. “You know what?”

“What?”

“Fuck them.”

On their way out, Lucas gets a glimpse of Aurelie Dupont, previous _premiere danseuse_ and _étoile_ , current _dictrice de la dance of the Opéra_ , as she hands her coat to the garderobier. He straightens his back subconsciously as they walk by. Legend.

“She’s hot,” says Arthur and fishes up cigarettes from his pocket. “Damn, almost fifty years old, it’s wild.” They come to a stop under a red umbrella and sink down in a white, plush sofa. Lucas shoots him an incredulous look and shakes his head at Arthur’s comments. “Ah, don’t pretend. I know you and your filthy mind. You’re just in a shitty mood” he chuckles and lights his cigarette.

“Boys, dinner is served,” a female classmate informs them as she walks by.

“We were inside one minute ago and then it was positively unserved!” Lucas questions after lighting up. Their classmate shrugs and leaves them.

Arthur waves his hand dismissively. “We’ll be there in a minute.”

After a moment, Lucas picks up where he left off before. “I meant what I said, though.”

“What?”

“Fuck them, seriously.”

Arthur shakes his head and groans. “It’s not like I’m going to quit, Lucas.”

Lucas looks around and moves a little closer to keep their conversation private; there are still a dozen people lingering on the terrace.

“No, that’s not what I’m saying; I’m saying you should …“ He trails off. Over someone’s shoulders, a pair of eyes catches his. He doesn’t recognize them.

“… You’re saying I should?” Arthur fills in after a moment and Lucas snaps back. He regroups and continues, “I’m saying you should fuck the qualifications. To hell with it, they don’t deserve you.”

Arthur snickers and hum’s in agreement. “Maybe.”

Lucas eyes navigate themselves away from Arthur, who is saying something, drawn back in the same direction as before. He sees the face of the unidentified guest, who smiles at something someone says and then drops his eyes straight back to Lucas and he recoils from the vertiginous loop that it prompts in his insides.

Arthur’s stomach murmurs and he rubs it with a grimace. “Anyway… ai, I’m starving.” He stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray.

“Ah, yeah. I think I need to eat as well.”  People around them start moving inside. Arthur and Lucas trails after. Lucas is not sure about what’s going on in his system. As a dancer, his immediate attention is more often than not focused on the physical aspects of his being, and he scans his body for clues.

“I feel funny,” he confides Arthur.

“Well, did you eat? Today?”

“Guess not. Not after…”

“Ha, then you’re gonna get shitfaced tonight. I love it when you get shitfaced. Remember last time?”

Lucas does remember. “I laughed for a week!” Arthur laughs now too, holding his stomach.

“It wasn’t funny at all. I almost froze to death.”

“But you didn’t. You just had to take a taxi naked.” Arthur refers to an evening six months ago, when Lucas, following a wet night out with the boys, got himself kicked out of Chloé’s at 4 am wearing only his briefs, after calling her by the wrong name. Lucas does not want to remember it because it makes him feel like such an unoriginal douche. But Arthur’s laugh is contagious.

“It pleases me to bring joy to others.”

 

 

Friday 18 january. 23.40.

 _L’Opera Restaurant._ _Palais Garnier l’opera de Paris_ // fascination phase

Dinner, consisting of Vietnamese dumplings and Bahn mi filled with marinated tofu, cole slaw and cilantro, is over. The ambiance has improved, and Lucas definitely sits more comfortably in his chair now. Maybe tonight will be okay, after all.

“I never cared for Nureyev’s contemporary work. And I don’t think he did himself, either.”

“How so?” Manon asks Chloé.

“It was too complex for him. He was all about simple structure; hierarchy, authority.”

Manon contemplates and stirs her coffee. “Soviet heritage,” Chloé adds.

“I think you’re unfair. Say what you want, but nothing here would be what it is without him,” Lucas says. “He changed the rules for how ballet is interpreted and performed. Especially for men.”

“Yeah, especially for men”, Chloé responds sarcastically. Lucas looks at her; his temper flaring unexpectedly.

“This is not a feminist issue, Chloé.” She turns her face towards him and scoffs.  Now they have the attention of the whole table.

“Seriously? That’s your call to make?”

“I just think your view is very selective. You see what you want to see.” He recognizes that Chloé is annoyed, but is still unprepared for the next blow.

“What I do see, Lucas, is an overgrown child, with a big dick and a big ego. Just like Nureyev.” With that she throws her napkin on the table, excuses herself and leaves the table.

The remaining eight are speechless for a moment. Then Basile breaks the silence with a laugh.

“Well, that escalated quickly.”

“Shit,” Lucas mutters. _Maybe tonight will not be okay, after all._ He curses his big mouth. He’s usually not tactless, but Chloé provokes him. Sometimes, resentment toward exes is just veiled disdain of your own mistakes, and each argument might as well just be you, yelling at yourself in the mirror.

“Wait, Lucas, was that a compliment or an insult?” Basile quips.

“Be quiet,” he whines.

“Lucas, seriously. Could you two _not_ , just for once?” Emma sighs.

Lucas leans his head into his hands and lets out a strangled groan into his palms.

“I’ll go talk to her.”

“Hurry, they’re about to announce in just a few.”

 _Yeah. Can’t wait._ Lucas gets up, throwing back the last of his wine for courage, and exits. He’s positive that she’s in the bathroom.

He knocks the door to the ladies’ room and waits. “Chloé?” Silence. “Come on, I know you’re in there. Come out and we’ll talk?”

Lucas knows that _l’inconnu_ from outside is around, before he sees him. Similar to that time when he hurt his knee really bad during rehearsal. After the fact, he thought he had seen it coming; a split-second before and BAM – it happened and he was both experiencing it and watching it. _L’inconnu_ walks by and stops a few meters away, just near to the patio exit, speaking to his company. Lucas hears him say “I’ll be right there”. The woman next to him leans in and adjusts the collar of his shirt. He is tall, bordering on lanky but trained; lean muscles silhouette under the fabric of his clothes. Lucas subconsciously recognizes that he is a dancer. His posture reveals him; only classically trained dancers carry themselves like that. _L’inconnu_ rolls his eyes at the woman, but smiles. Lucas is just quiet. Inside and out.

Chloé opens the door suddenly; it hits Lucas in the shoulder. She flinches in surprise and says, “ _Pardon_.” Lucas moves away to let her out. He has been quiet for so long that Chloé thought he had left. “I didn’t realize you were still standing there,” she goes on when Lucas is silent. “I’m sorry,” says Lucas. “I’m sorry for …“ _Well, for what exactly?_ He just doesn’t want to argue. Chloé lowers her gaze; she seems uncharacteristically remorseful.

“ _Non_ , Lucas, it’s me. I can’t sit with you like that, at the same table, without- “ She shakes her head and brings her hand to wipe at the corner of her eye. _No, no, no please don’t cry._ A sense of desperation seeps into Lucas system. He cannot deal with this tonight; he does not have the resources. He puts his hands on Chloé’s arms in an attempt to quell her agitation. It just makes her sniffle loudly and curse.

Lucas attention diverges when the smooth, airy voice of _l’inconnu_ registers with him again. The woman and he go their separate ways; he disappears around the corner and the sound of her high-heels echoes up the stairs. He snaps back when Chloé steps into him. “It is so strange between us; so cold and it feels like I barely know you, anymore.”

“Hey. Hey, it was my fault, okay?” He feels the heat of her body and had this night not been the end of such a wearing day, he probably would have had the impulse control to stop himself; but he doesn’t. So he puts his hands carefully on her cheeks. “It’s weird for me too.” Chloé does not need any further invitation, but brings her face close. “I’ve had a rough day, that’s what that was all about,” says Lucas and nods towards the restaurant. He smiles and her eyes drop to his mouth; they kiss and a sinister alarm shouting _MISTAKE_ immediately goes off in Lucas head. He knows this is his fault and tries to compensate by kissing her better. When they come apart, her eyes are hazy. He knows he could probably have his way with her if he wanted to; they could just leave and go home and he could try to fuck everything better. “ _Allez_ , I’ll join you in there in a bit. I have to call my mum.” Chloé nods and leaves him reluctantly, and he turns around and walks toward the patio door.

*

“What a pity. Are you sure there is nothing left?” _L’inconnu_ shoots a smile at the waitress; a girl who seems uncomfortable in her own skin in front of him. She looks around and ducks under the table.

“I’n sorry but I don’t think … ah!” She presents a half empty champagne bottle, palpably proud of herself.

“ _Voilá_! They should give you a raise.” She beams at him.

Lucas, not sure what his plan is here, holds an empty glass in his hand when _l’inconnu_ discovers him standing there, by chance.

“Sorry, did you also want some?” he says, and turns to Lucas. Seeing and hearing him like this makes Lucas realize that he is the same person that made him spill champagne on himself earlier. He doesn’t know if it is the voice, or the frame, or. _Or, er – what it is._

“As the case may be; I think you owe me.”

“ _Pardon_?” He gestures for Lucas glass.

“Never mind.”

“Seems conceivable, knowing me. Luckily, it’s for us both.” He fills Lucas’ glass.

“Thanks.”

“It looked like you need it, anyway,” _l’inconnu_ says then, with a quizzical look.

“That, inside there? yeah, I'm sorry,” Lucas offers, slightly embarrassed at his exposition.

"No problem."

“You know, how it can be.”

The stranger does not respond, but has an enigmatic smirk on his lips. A sharp clic-clac steps outside, and catches his attention.

“I’ve gotta go.” Before moving past, he steps in and clinks the bottle at Lucas glass, making champagne drizzle down Lucas fingers for the second time within as many hours. It goes unnoticed.  “ _Santé_ ” he says and Lucas replies too late and too weak to his retreating back.

Then he is startled by the voice of the waitress. “You need a napkin, sir?” He wipes his hand and is about to go inside when she speaks up again. “You’re forgetting something?” Lucas doesn’t get it, so she gestures at his abandoned glass. “You made a detour outside just for the extra champagne; it would be a shame if you left it behind.”

He hurries back, says, _merci_ , and leaves.

 _Yes._ _That is what that detour was about._

*

Lucas manages to squeeze his way to their table just as David tests the microphone. After some audio feedback his voice murmurs through the restaurant. Lucas is curled up on the inside, but hopes he is doing better outwardly. It doesn’t matter what he wants, now.

“Ladies and gentlemen, students, dear guests. I, we, hope that you are enjoying yourselves and that you take the opportunity to celebrate tonight. Our students have the day off tomorrow, to this sole purpose!” Scattered cheers around the room. David laughs. “We knew it would be useless to try to make you dance tomorrow, anyway. So make sure to do it tonight. We have a full semester ahead of us. New this spring is that our program has been remodeled and for the first time ever, will consist of three parallel tracks. The classical, the contemporary and the family track. The family track is the latest addition and it has been initiated by us with the support of the department of arts and culture, to better the school’s outreach in the family community of Paris and adapt the fine arts to younger audience. We start off by the Wind in the Willows, which Niels Rahou will tell you more about in a moment. Before I move on to the next point, I want to direct my immense gratitude to you, the students of _l’École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris._ ” You knew that things were about to get serious, when David used the whole name. “It is you who carry this institution, and it is you who are the future. Most of you, who are here tonight, are in your terminal year which means it is only this semester and the next that we are responsible for you. Thank god.” Spread laughter. “So a few words of advice. Take your time, during this last year of your education, to figure out what you _need_ to excel at dancing. One thing can’t come before the other in this case; not until you have your needs met, can you meet the needs and demands from others. And at this school, the demands are tough; I know. But we are here to help you with that, it is our job.” It was true. They are doted on in a manner few other teenagers ever would have imagined one could be in a school environment.  There is some applause and Lucas claps too. “Now, my dear ones, I shall not make you wait any longer. I think what many are the most excited about tonight, is the forthcoming first classical premiere of 2019.” Someone whistles and hollers. David laughs, seeming almost giddy. There is a little pang of sharp pain in Lucas chest, and he starts chewing his lip while waiting. “ _Romeo et Julietet_. Without further ado, I want to introduce the newest stars of the Palais Garnier. As our female protagonist, _mademoiselle Juliet Capulet_ , Lucille, please come up here.”

Lucas is so focused on his own situation that he almost has forgotten that there actually is a female part in the mix as well. He applauds Lucille, of course it is hers; she’s made for it. She is exquisite.

“And as our doomed young cavalier, _monsieur Romeo Montague_ ; Eliott Demaury, please join us as well.” Eliott Demaury comes walking from somewhere behind Lucas. “An extra big hand for Eliott who I don’t think many of you have had the chance to meet yet.” There is an audible click in Lucas brain when he finally gets an eye on his nemesis. The puzzle comes together as if magnetic. Of course it is him; it is him.  Manon has been tentatively stroking between his shoulder blades during the presentation, but she abandons him briefly and half-whispers to Alexa, “ _Oh là là, bogosse. C’est un truc de fou là!_ ” Elliot Demaury, _le connu_ , hugs David and Lucille. Lucas has bitten his lips sore. He has been waiting so long to see and now he can’t tear his eyes away; they can’t do anything but rest on Eliott Demaury. He thinks he must be something wrong with his brain for not understanding before. The slight twangy distortion to Eliott’s vowels, his misplacedness, his dancer physique; there had been so many clues. But Lucas could not see them, what he saw was something else.  Truth be told, his physique had not gone by unnoticed. He had recognized him as flock member, Lucas decides. He grabs his glass just to have something to do with his hands and Eliott Demaury seems uncomfortable too. He has the presence of a God but there is something childlike about his manners, where he stands in between David and Lucille. Maybe it’s the way he talks; maybe it’s the way he walks. Maybe Lucas is just fascinated despite himself.

“Welcome to the school, Eliott. I hope you will feel as home, at the school and in the city where it all started for you.” Eliott looks like someone who has a permanent room in the spotlight, but doesn’t know who booked it for him or why. The longer Lucas watches him, the quieter his mind goes. “As tradition has it, we will now give you a token of gratitude and encouragement. Where is it?” David turns to Niels, presents two bobbin-net gift bags each containing a set of keys to the school scene and auditorium. “It is not the keys to _Palais Garnier_ , mind you, not even I am entrusted with those. It is, the keys to one of the School’s most important spaces, and it is where you will have your first dress rehearsals.  But most of all, it is a symbolic gift, the key to the stage.” Applauses again, some hollers and whistles and Lucas wants to tell them to _shut up_.

Then he gets up, seemingly out of the blue to anyone outside of his head, and takes his jacket from the chair. “I’m done. I’m going home,” he announces to his friends. He takes in Eliott’s being visually one last time and strides to the door. He hails a taxi and goes home.

 

 

Saturday 19 January. 01:17.

 _The apartment_ // band aid

Embarrassment, it turns out, is almost harder to swallow than anger or unhappiness. Lucas brain insists on bringing it up over and over again; how he had been so fascinated. And it makes his cheeks flush and heat that he was so, to the extent that he never would have figured out who the mysterious one was, if it hadn’t been shoved in his face. Instead, he had followed him like a puppy. He is not one hundred percent sure why it matters, but he is sure that it makes him cringe and hide in the pillow.

The apartment is dark and quiet and it is soothing. When his phone vibrates he picks it up.

_Chloé: Ça va?_

_Lucas: “Ça va. Got tired”_

_Chloé: “Right. Want company?”_

It’s difficult for Lucas to say no to sex. Even though the forecast says lukewarm temperatures with a fifty percent chance of ejaculation, he’ll take it.

_Lucas: “Sure. Come.”_


	4. Grand Allegro 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Romeo makes Lucas feel all kinds of confused. 
> 
> Warning for lots of ballet terminology! Word list to be added shortly. Also for the French.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gros bisous to everyone who commented! It warms my amateur writer's heart!
> 
> Artwork by the phenomenal Mme F. Merci ma belle ♥️  
> Disclaimer: None of the images in use are mine. They are copyrighted and should not be spread outside of this forum.
> 
> Dear reader,  
> while I do have knowledge and experience of ballet and being a student at a classical dance school, some things have been altered to a less realistic respresentation for the purpose of creating an appealing story.
> 
> Note that Lucas' thoughts, the chat conversation and various French phrases and words are written in italics. I realize it may cause confusion, but I hope it won't. Don't hesitate to ask me if questions arise ♥️  
> This is part of a multichapter work that will update a couple of time each week. Until the end of time. Bisous (especially to my muses in SUF).
> 
> Kudos and Komments are highly appreciated ♥️
> 
> Written with utmost respect for the creators and characters of the original work.

 

 

 

Monday 21 January. 08.00

 _l’École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris_ // the ritual

Lucas is the first to arrive to the studio Monday morning, mildly shocked himself. More often than not, he stumbles in last while cramming his feet into his shoes, skidding into a free slot at the barre.

The sun is bleak but lights up the room just enough through the floor-to-ceiling windows, so he doesn’t bother to turn on the lamps. He sits by the barre, slowly stretching his feet and looks out on the park in front of the school. The grass is green and if you wouldn’t know better it might as well has been March or April; Paris doesn’t quite seem to reach winter anymore. Ivan the Pianist arrives next; equally surprised to find Lucas there and unable to hide it.

“ _Bonjour_ , Lucas. Did you stay here all weekend?”

Lucas snickers and waves him off. “I don’t know how it happened, but…here I am.”

Ivan sits down by the piano and starts rummaging through note sheets. “Did you enjoy yourself Friday?”

“Yes, sure. It was… fancy as ever.”

Ivan starts going through the notes, playing bits and parts. “An accurate description.” Then he starts up Nocturne no 2, in E flat major, by Chopin. “A serenade, to commemorate the occasion” he says, over the music.

“What’s the occasion?”

“You being here on time.”

“Fine, I got it.” Lucas rolls his eyes at him but gets up and starts his routine properly.

It warms him, to be played for alone, despite the sarcasm on the pianist’s behalf. Each morning starts here, in the studio. Whatever they are rehearsing, every day commences with class. It is a ritual and the cathartic foundation of the dance. Two hours of working through the whole body; every muscle, tendon and angle. It is meticulous and careful; in particular the first hour of warm-up and technical exercise by the barre. The following combinations on the diagonal and in the center deepen the complexity and intensity and by the end of class you should be shaking and wet through your clothes with sweat; or you have something wrong.

“Hey, Ivan, I thought of something,” says Lucas as the final tones ring out.

“Oh, no.”

“What if – _hear me out_ – if you promise to serenade it, I promise to arrive on time each morning?”

“Not until you _monsieur_ me, you brat.”

Students start dropping in, filling the room with rough morning-voices and the sound of their down warm-up boots padding across the floor. Lucas starts to feel anxious, as he watches the door. He is never nervous for class but it was so good to be there alone. He has been dissociating from the thought throughout the morning, but the growing ant farm in his stomach is an effective reminder; sooner or later _Romeo_ will show up. Sooner, rather than later, turns out to be the case; Eliott rounds the corner as if summoned by Lucas current state of unrest. He has his backpack casually flung over one shoulder and is talking to Fanny; the teacher. Lucas has a bad moment of insecurity and wants to interrupt their conversation but instead he occupies himself with shoulder stretches and discreet staring. Eliott looks like something between extremely fatigued and _soigné_ ; disheveled hair, dark circles but glittering eyes as he looks around the room.

Arthur shoves his shoulder into Lucas; “Morning. Are you hypnagogic?”

“Hypna-quoi?”

“ _Hypnagogic._ It’s the experience of the transitional state from sleep to wakefulness, commonly known as hypnagogic hallucinations.”

“Okay Wikipedia, it’s Monday morning, what do you expect?”

“Nothing more, from you. You just looked like you were dreaming.”

Fanny claps her hands twice and the buzzing of voices dies down. “Attention, please. Attention. I hope you are all well-rested and prepared for the week, in spite of Friday’s debaucheries.”

“Can hardly be called debaucheries, monsieur Lallement even opened the studio today,” says Ivan who is standing beside her, much to everyone’s amusement. Lucas raises a hand in feigned resignation, but feels his cheeks heat. Eliott’s eyes find him and Lucas sees recognition, and a smirk. At least he didn’t laugh.

“Alright, before we start I want to give a proper welcome to our newest recruit.” Fanny gestures for Elliot to step forward from his place at the barre and he does so with a small wave to the room. “You might have met each other Friday or before; this is Eliott Demaury, transferred from New York. And you are, in your terminal year,” she directs to Elliot, who nods and shifts his gaze between the floor and her. Sensing that he is not a talker, she continues; “We are pleased to welcome you to the school, and all the more so; that you will be taking on such vital part in the classical presentation of this year.” Eliott nods and mouths _merci_.

 “As you, in barely a month’s time, will be Romeo on stage. Welcome, and best of luck.”

Eliott smiles. Arthur coughs and hisses _Hypnagogic_ to Lucas.

*

“Alright, from the top. You go: _retiré; devéloppé; balance_ one time; _rond en l’air_ ; and _arabesque_ five, six, seven, pay attention to that you lift your hip and center on the way in. Lift the hip and it leads the movement. _Port de bras_ on eight. _En arrière: retiré; devéloppé; balance_ in fourth _arabesque_ and _rond_. _Soutenu_.” Fanny finishes the instruction and gives the students a moment to assemble themselves by the barre. “ _Préparation_.”

Lucas enjoys the physical work of ballet more than anything; the symbiosis in which his muscles and joints are interlaced; lines that connect with each other and with his core. He works painstakingly through the movement, striving with each fiber. He recognizes that his love for technique probably is what got him where he is. For technique, and for the piano. He has danced to full orchestral backing but what makes his heart beat are the strains of one piano.

When he loses concentration in the middle of his diagonal, he blames his inadequate breakfast; his shelf in the fridge was a pitiful sight this morning.

“Lucas! Concentration! You finish in fourth position. _Chainés, pirouette_ , and land and gather in fourth. _Allez_ , you go again.” Fanny would of course never cut him that slack. Lucas trots back to the corner, involuntarily cutting the line with a muttered excuse, positions himself and waits for the time. The inner devil tells him to _show them what pirouettes are_ and he turns six times instead of three, as is the standard, before finishing and looking compulsively at Fanny. “A bit over the top, but I won’t make a fool of myself and complain over your pirouettes,” she says. It is a mechanism that Lucas finds both comical and sad; how dancing ballet inflicts the need of approval from authority, namely from teachers. It leaves you at their discretion, which can be fairly unpredictable at times, but the reward is too sweet to refuse.

He more feels than sees Eliott’s movements across the floor in the periphery. What he can tell, by the moving shadows in the corner of his eye, is that Elliot is tall, jumps high and moves quickly.

After finishing the _révérence_ , Fanny calls out to the students who already started to collect their scattered belongings. “Hey! Ho-ho! Do not disappear yet.” She looks down into a hard-cover folder and hums. “Everybody, are you keeping yourselves informed and updated on your choreographic rehearsal schedule? I hope so. Group A; that would be Lucas, Elliot, Lucille, Hector, Mariam, and … No, that’s it. You are expected in the studio at 15 hours tomorrow. We gather for run-through. Make sure you have studied the script sufficiently. We devote the most of the time to the collation, but there will be time for rehearsal afterwards. We will stay around, also,” she says about herself and her colleagues. “Auguste Ortiz is not arriving until next week, which gives you a little bit of time to prepare. The rehearsals of group A are open to for spectators from group B and C as usual with the exception of tomorrow. Groups B and C, you follow ordinary schedule until further notice. Questions? None? Alright, chop-chop. _À demain, mes petits._ ” 

Lucas has to unpack his whole bag just to find his sweat pants, rolled up into a wrinkly ball at the bottom. He pulls them on for protection against the cold of the culvert and the walk to the changing room. When he looks up, Eliott sidles up to him. “Oh, you scared me.” He must have been very quiet, approaching.

Eliott smiles and raises his eyebrows in surprise. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.” He’s playing with his keyring, juggling it in one hand and seems to expect a response from Lucas but he can’t get a word out. There is something soft in Elliot’s face. Maybe he has taken pity on Lucas; he honestly wouldn’t blame him _._ “Bonjour,” says Eliott then, in his smooth baritone. “Bonjour,” answers Lucas. Eliott picks up his bag from the floor, flings it over his shoulder and walks away. Hi, says Eliott once more inside Lucas head.

 

Monday 21 january. 19.30

 _The apartment_ // pas intéressé

“Wow, Lucas. Your enthusiasm has me shook,” says Mika and helps himself to more lasagna.

“It will be fine. It will. I’m just not interested in Mercutio.”

“Oh, really? I always thought you swung both ways.”

Lucas gives Mika a tired look over the kitchen table to which Mika responds with a roll of his eyes. “Jesus, I kid.”

“But, Elliot, he is really super. Brilliant.” Manon says, like it’s no big deal. When Lucas gives her a death stare, she retaliates:  “Please. Pardon the tough love, but not the whole universe revolves around your feelings.”

“I don’t think that qualifies as tough love, Manon” Mika remarks. “It’s just …tough, _voilà_.”

Manon softens a bit. A bit. “I’m sorry. But I’m used to you. He is new blood.”

Lucas knows that Eliott Demaury is new blood, and he also knows he is super. He has a trained eye for both aptitude and competition and even through his alleged hypnagogic state of mind, he recognized talent when it stared him right in the face. With gray-blue, probing eyes.

“Did you talk to him, or what?” Lucas asks, feeling like a needy kid.

“A bit. It’s not his fault, you know. What happened with you and the role. He’s not even aware, fully, what happened, I don’t think. You didn’t talk to him, at all?”

“Non. Er-, I know I should get over myself. I just need a bit of time.” He gets up and rinses his plate. “Speaking of … well, class; I won’t be there tomorrow morning. I have physiotherapy.

“But for run-through, you will?”

“Obviously. No choice.”

 

Tuesday 22 January. 15.00

 _l’École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris_ // it starts here

“We haven’t performed Romeo and Juliet at this school in ten years’ time. So it’s a special occasion for that reason. Furthermore, it is the first time ever that we perform it at the _Palais Garnier_. I think you all can recognize the significance of it; both for the school and for you, as dancers and aspirants for the corps. And the journey towards that goal, it starts here.”

Lucas is used to these speeches from the school management. It always gives him the urge to rebel; which confuses him. Essentially, he always understands the purpose of it being said. He even agrees with it. 

The five of them are gathered in Studio L, spread out in the room in front of Fanny, Christophe and Niels. Lucas is sitting down with his legs stretched out in front of him, next to Hector who asks him to help him tie the supportive tourniquet around his ankle. He gestures and shows his own hands which are covered in liniment. As Lucas gets his hands busy he looks across the studio, at the only person still standing up. Elliot has been there early for his private rehearsal with Christophe. He’s still sweaty and a little bit out of breath, standing with his torso bare, hands on his hips. Every now and then, he semi-consciously traces the movements he has been rehearsing with his hands and arms, while he listens distractedly to Christophe. Despite his irritation, Lucas almost sighs with pleasure at Eliott’s port the bras; the way his shoulders press down and flatten, making his neck long and chest wide; the curve of his arm and light hands. Eliott has the perfect body for ballet. Long lines intrinsic to his form, _complètement gratuit_. Lucas knows there is nothing for free for them. But what he sees has him green with admiration and envy. Was it not enough that he had stolen his role. Did he also have to be the epitome of the male ballet dancer?

As Christophe goes on, talking about the management’s vision with the production, a notion starts to form in Lucas.  He had woken up the same morning feeling better than recently and physiotherapy had ended with massage which rendered him good and tranquil – but sitting here with Eliott Demaury literally towering a few meters away means a hasty goodbye to whatever internal peace there had been. He starts to understand that he really needs to get all of his shit together, or Mercutio will be a very disappointing best friend of Romeo at _Palais Garnier_ this spring. One thing is indubitable by now; he won’t have the option of not dealing with Eliott. He has seen him an equal amount as he has his friends the last couple of days, without even trying. _So, that leaves him with what?_ As far as he knows, there are two ways he can go about this. Avoiding, or befriending. He guesses what he has been engaged in so far categorizes as avoidance, and to what avail? _Befriending, then_. He looks up from Hector’s ankle again across the room. Before his eyes settle on Eliott, he catches his gaze in the mirror. Eliott is looking straight at him in the reflecting glass and Lucas stomach does a flip and a flop so distinct that he wonders if it made an echo in the room.  Something in him breaks apart a little and he can’t continue his rational pursuit of direction. He only rides the waves of allurement; thrown around away from Eliott’s gray lighthouse eyes and then back again. And Eliott pierces him, unapologetically; nails him to the floor and spreads him open.

“Aïe, Lucas; it’s too tight,” Hector complains.

*

“Lucas and Hector, you stay here with me and Eliott. We didn’t finish what we started before run-through.”

Watching Eliott rehearse is some sweet kind of torture. Lucas feels beaten up, inside and out, like he has run a marathon with his brain and dragged his body along behind it. Or, like after a whole day of rehearsal; caffeine high and starving. And they haven’t even gotten to his part, yet. Eliott is strong, quick and athletic. He jumps higher than most Lucas has seen but his most distinctive quality is not that; it’s the floor bound movements, where his body relates to a palpable entity, which he expertly uses for the benefit of the lines, curves and extensions of his movements. Lucas senses a strong contemporary influence in his schooling. Christophe is smitten; Lucas hears him call Eliott a _stallion of the dance_. Eliott blushes at that. Lucas watches, spellbound as he is, and sees that Eliott is not entirely comfortable in the attention. But Lucas envies him anyway. What Lucas lacks, Elliot has in spades. He bites down on the carrot he brought for snacks, and the snapping sound echoes and breaks Eliott’s concentration as he prepares for a pirouette. He looks at him over his arm stretched out _à la seconde._

“ _Désolé._ ” 

“ _Pas grave._ ”

They are to prepare their separate entries in the first act and there is really no need for Eliott to stick around for Lucas preparation. But he does, to Lucas discomfort. “I should know what he is doing, too,” he explains to Christophe, who agrees.

“I need a ten minute break, however. You wore me out, Demaury.” Eliott ignores his comment and starts putting on his sweats. When Christophe has left and Hector is warming up, he turns to Lucas.

“Did you like it?”

“Sure,” says Lucas and gets up, leaving his immediate presence. For Mercutio to be Romeos best friend, avoidance would have to be Lucas’.

 

Wednesday 23 January. 11:23

 _The apartment_ // perplexed

Lucas is stuck. Stuck as in physically unable to leave the flat-share and go to school. The idea of just dodging classes, and all that they entail, came to him in the early morning and was too tempting to refuse. It is the first time in his entire schooling that he misses class, except for that time when he injured his knee. And when his parents divorced; _quel bordel._ He makes sure to only exit his room when he knows the place is empty; he doesn’t need questions. He tells himself he just needs one day of breathing space.

Thursday, he needs to go. Except, he can’t. The mere notion of attending class is so intimately connected with a pair of gray eyes that threatens to stare him down into eternity; so far he might never find his way back, that it makes him sweat. He is a deer in the headlights. He must appear as the weirdest guy on the face of earth, he gathers. Holing up in the apartment might not do anything to help that appearance, but neither Elliot, nor anyone else needs to know his reasons. After all, he barely knows them himself.

Friday, he is positively lost. He alternates between passionate inner pep talks about how fine everything totally is and cold dread. He spends about thirty minutes around lunch staring into the mirror, waiting for enlightenment. When he first worked out his strategy of avoidance (although calling it “work out” and “strategy” might be a bit of a stretch) this wasn’t exactly what he pictured.  Adding to his predicament, he has now missed three full days of class and ignored approximately 3K messages on his phone. Surprisingly, that part concerns him relatively little. He knows he’ll get around that, somehow. But the eyes, which he simultaneously wants to escape and seek out, fuck him up royally. He is so exhausted from being torn between wanting to run his head through a panel of sturdy drywall and seek Eliott out again, just so he can take him out on that ride of eye fuckery once more, that he sleeps as if comatose and spends the weekend largely in blissful oblivion. Because that ride, whatever it was, was addictive.

On Sunday, Manon knocks on his door and refuses to be turned away. He mumbles something about being ill, but she just stomps past him and opens the window, and flops down on his bed.

“Is this only about the dance?” she asks.

“Is what only about the dance?”

“Stop, Lucas. Why are you not coming to rehearsal? Hiding in this disgusting…man-cave of yours?”

Lucas doesn’t answer; he feels aphasic after the last days of exclusively inner dialogue.

“I know you are not sick. So, what is it?”

If he keeps quiet long enough, maybe she will start answering her own questions too, finish up the conversation and leave? “Talk. Mika said you were in here all weekend and didn’t open to him yesterday even though he knew you were here. _Alors,_ talk.”

Lucas lets out a long exhale. “Also, can you put on clothes? While you’re at it? As much as I admire your physique I’d prefer it if you were dressed beyond that,” Manon finishes and gestures at Lucas boxers.

“ _Putain_ , fine.” He starts rummaging through his wardrobe for a pair of pants, finding it easier to respond to her with his back turned.

“I… don’t know, really. I don’t know, why. Don’t make such a big deal out of it.”

“But, you must know. You just don’t want to say.”

Lucas sits down, next to her. “It has just been weird, in class. At rehearsal, especially. I … can’t focus well, get distracted, and get heart palpitations. Forget choreography. That’s all I know. Thought I needed to unwind for a few days and it’d be better.”

Manon looks at him thoughtfully. “Since when?”

“It was happening all Monday and Tuesday. But, I guess since Friday, maybe,” Lucas mutters. “I just wanted some time for myself; I thought it would make it go away.”

“Make what go away, exactly?”

“Manon, I don’t know! Ok? If I had something more to say, I would. Can’t I just be allowed to be like this?”

“I worry about you, that’s all. You never miss anything, and now…well. I don’t think anything’s gonna get better, by you sitting in here like a recluse. And people are asking; it’d be a lot less weird if you at least communicated.” She hesitates a bit. “Even Eliott Demaury asked about you.”

“Huh. What did he want?” Lucas gets up and puts on a shirt, in a manner that he thinks suggests nonchalance.

“Same as everyone else. To know if you’re okay.”

“Okay, you can tell him, and everyone else, that I’m fine.”

“You can do it yourself, in class tomorrow. You’re going, enough of this already,” she says and points at him when he starts protesting. “And I’m pretty sure you’ll have a personal visit by the board or Christophe or even Fanny, unless you show up. Plus, I have no one to go to the café with when you’re not there. The others are on some detox _merde_ and don’t drink coffee.” Manon gets up but stops with her hand on the door handle. “This isn’t just some weird power play or something that you’ve got going on with him, right?”

“But, no! It has nothing to do with him.”

“Oh. But you know who I’m talking about, then?”

Lucas sighs and stalls for time, but has no come-back on that one. “Enough talking,” he says.

“ _Allez_ , I cooked.”


	5. Grand Allegro 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> << Under love's heavy burden do I sink >>
> 
> Circumstances forces Lucas closer to the fuel to his fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear reader, an important note: In this chapter, the very first sequence of this story called "it's reciprocal" reappears. It was included in the first chapter (Grand Allegro 1) as a preview, a sneak peek a few weeks into the future. Now it appears again in the chronological timeline. Even if you read that part I recommend reading it again in this chapter, for a better experience. 
> 
> Artwork by the phenomenal Mme F. Merci ma belle ♥️  
> Disclaimer: None of the images in use are mine. They are copyrighted and should not be spread outside of this forum.
> 
> While I do have knowledge and experience of ballet and being a student at a classical dance school, some things have been altered to a less realistic respresentation for the purpose of creating an appealing story.
> 
> Note that Lucas' thoughts, the chat conversation and various French phrases and words are written in italics. I realize it may cause confusion, but I hope it won't. Don't hesitate to ask me if questions arise ♥️  
> This is part of a multichapter work that will update a couple of time each week. Until the end of time. Bisous (especially to my muses in SUF).
> 
> Kudos and Komments are highly appreciated ♥️
> 
> Written with utmost respect for the creators and characters of the original work.

 

 

Monday 28 January. 07.45

 _l’École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris_ // i’m romeo

Manon hands over the plastic cup with _Lukas_ written in green letters. “They got my name wrong. They better have gotten the coffee right.”

She shakes her head and mutters; “I swear, I never thought I’d mother a child at this age,”

“Come on. You like it. A little bit?”

“Very little.”

“I like it,” Lucas offers. “I’m sorry that you … thanks for making me snap out of it, yesterday.”

She hooks her arm under his. “You’re welcome. As long as you keep paying for coffee.”

Lucas has, after some helpful threats from Manon and Mika, pieced himself together into somewhat presentable shape by Monday morning. Along with him, he brings a few rehearsed phrases about his absence as of late. They enter the studio building and Lucas feels relief wash over him, although he suspects it might be temporary. He misses dancing. At least, he still has that.

Manon waits impatiently outside the men’s changing room when he exits. “Hurry up, we’re late.” They enter the studio just in time. There is no time for people to ask questions, which suits Lucas just fine and he entertains the hope that it will stay that way. It turns out to be futile.

“Why did you go AWOL?” asks Arthur, when they’re gathering up their gear by the end of class. “We texted you like a hundred times.” It is not an exaggeration. 

“Something came up, I- had a stress with my mother. And I wasn’t feeling well.”

“ _Attends, attends_. You had a stress with your mother?” Basile laughs at the phrasing. “What does that even mean?”

Lucas sighs. “I- it was just some things. Things,” he repeats as if _things_ is self-explanatory. “And I wasn’t feeling well. But, it’s fine now.”

“I thought something was up with your girl _._ Chloé,” Basile clarifies when Lucas doesn’t catch on.

“Oh, god no.” _Right, Chloé._ He can only imagine the shitstorm he has coming from that direction. He knows his friends are unsatisfied with his lame excuse of an explanation. But they leave him alone, anyway.

“ _Ça va mieux_?” Eliott turns up behind him. Lucas spins around instinctively at his voice.

“Yes.”

“I’m glad.”

When Lucas does not expand on the subject area of feigned ailments, Eliott introduces himself, which Lucas wants to laugh at in disbelief. “I’m Eliott.”

“I know. I’m Lucas.”

“I know. Mercutio.” Eliott’s face is like carved in marble; delicately shadowed eyes that intimidates, but wrinkles up so wonderfully when he smiles. And he does. He has a face that encompasses all the bright luster and darkness of the world; its grief and happiness.

 “That would be me,” Lucas manages through his sandpaper throat.

Eliott stands in front of him a moment longer, then says “We have the thing on Thursday. Rehearsal.”

Lucas nods, says “I’ll be there,” unsure if Eliott hears it.

“He seems nice,” Arthur comments afterwards. The newcomer’s popularity is not lost on Lucas. Everyone’s smitten. He can’t blame them.

 

Wednesday January 30. 19.25

 l’École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris // we’ll see where it takes us

“You enter. You run up to Romeo. You are energized and exuberant; you want to convince him.” Auguste Ortiz mimics a certainly energized impression of Mercutio, appearing from the imaginary coulisse and jogs up to Romeo, or rather, Eliott, who is sitting on his knees at the center of the studio. Lucas stands with his hands on his hips; then summons whatever exuberance he has in him and takes trying steps across the floor. He rounds Eliott and offers him his mask with a grand gesture, as it is worded in the script. Eliott breaks into a childlike laugh, and gets up staggeringly.

“Is this going to be my mask?” He puts it on and looks in the mirror. “I look like a raccon. Romeo the raccon, or what. Soon on Disney Channel.” Lucas can’t help but giggle.

“Never mind the mask, Eliott. It’s going to be black, that’s all I can tell you,” says Auguste.

“Do you think I look like a raccon?” Eliott says, turned to Lucas. “Or Zorro?”

“Something in between.”

He pauses and starts to circle Lucas. “Which do you prefer?” His question shoots a stream of burning butterflies up Lucas abdomen, and he turns around his own axis, following Eliott as he goes.

“I’ll have to think about it.”

“Would you recognize me?”

 _Yeah, in a crowd of a million._ “I would.”

“ _Les gars_ ,” Auguste interrupts and walks up to them. “I actually really like what you are doing there. The turning of one another. But I want it to be you Lucas; Mercutio should circle Romeo, kind of like a predator zoning in on his prey. You’ll want to convey to him, how much you want him to forget about Rosaline and come with you into the night. Let’s try, from the top; do it ad-lib and we’ll see where it takes us.”

After rehearsal wraps up Lucas feels raw and vulnerable, so he hurries off like he has some place to be. Without much thought, he has successfully avoided the changing room at busy hours the preceding days. He recognizes it as unhealthy behavior; but his strategy of avoidance is all he has got, so he clings to it. He bumps into Chloé on his way out from the studio.

“I’ve been trying to find you,” she says.

“I’ve been right here.”

“Not really, though.” Lucas motions for her to move outside with him, away from the muffled voices of the choreographer and pianist and away from those eyes from across the room, which compels him so that he can’t help but look back at them one last time before exiting.

 

January 31. 20.51

 _l’École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris_ // it’s reciprocal.

Lucas draws his legs in underneath the bench he is sitting on, one of his feet drumming restlessly. There is only he and Eliott left in the changing room. He has tried so hard to avoid this situation, for weeks now. _Eliott surely thinks I hate him,_ he thinks. Which he did, initially. But that’s not true, anymore.

Lucas is an animated person; that’s how he knows himself, but around Eliott he is rendered mute. He doesn’t necessarily want to talk to him, and even if he wanted to, he just couldn’t _._ Eliott’s mere presence invokes the utter inability to form a coherent sentence. Lucas is equal parts frustrated and relieved each time another moment of possible interaction slides by, without anything but possibly weird glances exchanged back and forth between them. Truth be told, it is difficult to know whether one wants to talk to someone or not, when one simply is unable to. If he could, would he?

 _So damn tired_ , Lucas rubs his forehead and tries to push his demons away. He stands up and starts to change out of his attire. There is no help for it now, here they are. He has to say something; they have to say something or he couldn’t live with the weirdness. Lucas shoots a glance at Eliott, who carelessly has discarded all his clothes in a heap on the floor. Lucas has already opened his mouth to speak, but the vision of Eliott’s pale, translucent skin, sculpted muscles, all planes and angles, makes him hesitate and all that comes out of him is a too loud exhale that Eliott hears and looks over to him. Casually. How the fuck is he casual, when Lucas can’t even talk and apparently not _not_ talk either. “So from where did you transfer, again?” he manages, while folding his t-shirt against his chest, holding it with his chin. Was it weird to start talking to people while they were naked? Too late, anyway.

“SAB” Elliot says and glances up. Lucas nods and purses his lips. _Makes sense,_ he thinks. Eliott’s athletic and quick style, bordering on acrobatic, is just the style of School of American Ballet. The common criticism from the Parisian stable would be that School of American Ballet trains athletes - not dancers. Not artists. Lucas had previously been inclined to agree but after watching Eliott take on Romeo and Juliet and almost all of the rehearsals the last two weeks, he knows that it is a depreciative simplification of the truth. Eliott is outstanding. Lucas recognizes it but he doesn’t have the proper words to describe his effortless, yet intense style, because his vocabulary is based on his own schooling, which is different.  Eliott wraps a towel around his waist and sits down on the bench next to his gear, across the room from Lucas. “Was there for the last 8 years, but … “ he trails off.

“Then you got …Romeo,” Lucas fills in. He really fucking hopes that bottomless envy that he feels doesn’t transmit to his voice.

Eliott doesn’t reply immediately. “It contributed,” he says, seemingly pensive. Lucas scoffs, incredulous. _Seriously_? He makes it sound like it was just one factor, which he could add or remove from the equation; like it was optional and not essential. If you got a lead role at the Palais Garnier you fucking took it. Eliott doesn’t elaborate, other than saying “I’m from here, from Paris.”

Lucas knows that. He is too concerned he might say something rude if he opens his mouth again, so he doesn’t.

“But I’m not sure I can belong here again”, says Elliot. It makes Lucas look up at him. When Eliott realizes Lucas is waiting for a continuation, he shrugs his shoulders and goes on, “Things change. I was just a kid when I lived here last time. Home is… I don’t know, in fact, right now”. He smiles a little and stands up.

Lucas feels virginal suddenly; he has only ever lived in Paris. Usually, it makes him feel like a cultured, metropolitan man. But he is not sure just what he is, since recently.

“What about you. Do you love Paris?” Elliot asks. Lucas is a little taken aback by the question.

“I don’t … I don’t know. I’m here for the dance, still. That’s why I’m here.” Lucas shrugs. Nobody has asked him that before. Eliott doesn’t answer at first, just looks at Lucas searchingly.

“But you love dancing?”

Lucas can only nod. Of course he loves dancing, but anyone at their level would know that the dance can act simultaneously as a blessing and a curse. It is the one thing Lucas knows how to do well, arguably better than most, and still it is always bordering on the unattainable. And all of a sudden, someone like Eliott could sweep in from god knows where and simply steal the thunder.

“It’s reciprocal”, says Eliott, still looking at Lucas. Lucas, standing only in his tricots felt uncomfortable. He tries to deflect the compliment just because he knows that he doesn’t deserve it, not from Eliott, who he has spent so much energy trying to ignore the last couple of weeks that it actually has exhausted him a bit.  He shrugs and quietly curses the lopsided smile that creeps out over his lips. _Such a sucker for compliments._ He sits down, too, and tries to think of how to either continue or get out of the conversation, but Eliott anticipates him and gets up. He walks past right in front of Lucas, with a confusing smirk on his lips and then he disappears into the showers.

 

Wednesday February 13. 19.47

l’École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris // death of mercutio

If he felt raw, shaken and stirred the first few days of rehearsal, then that’s nothing compared to now. He has never been tested quite like this before; and he has been through some ordeals. He leaves each rehearsal feeling like there’s a rubber band tied around his midsection, pulling him back. The further he walks, the stronger the pull. And the other end of the band is attached to Elliot. He still doesn’t know where Elliot came from, other than the physical locations of his residences; _what gave rise to him_. Where did he come from?

He has been in the immediate presence of Elliot every day except Saturday and Sunday the past three weeks and is, however, sure of a couple of things. One, Eliott is the most attractive human being he has ever seen; two, he is a better dancer than Lucas and three, Lucas is in big trouble.

“Now; Tybalt, he pulls back his knife and steps back- further back.” Hector stumbles backwards in feigned shock.

“You don’t notice that Mercutio is stabbed, until you catch his arm under yours,” Auguste continues to Eliott. “And you are horrified; you turn around… you look at Mercutio who just realizes and looks at the blood- Lucas, you are going to want to really stretch out your hands here, and your fingers. Otherwise nobody will see it. Overdo it.” Lucas stands in front of Eliott, who might try his best to look horrified, but fails. Rather, he just looks at Lucas, right in the face, seemingly lost. Auguste notices and isn’t pleased.

“Eliott. You look at the blood; you are appalled by it.”

Lucas looks down on his hands, invokes the image of blood smeared over them and looks up at Eliott, who is still doing a pretty shitty job of looking horrified, but he reaches out his hands and grasps Lucas’ upper arms as instructed as Lucas starts dropping to his knees, pushing his hands onto his own chest. Lucas reels and drops to the floor, lying down and Eliott kneels beside him.

“No, no. You don’t just stretch out, like you’re putting your body out for auction,” Auguste calls from the side.

“Yeah, okay. Sorry, I wasn’t sure.”

Eliott gets up and walks in a circle. He reeks of exertion and pushes his hair out of his forehead. It’s the first time Lucas sees him a little out of it. They are approaching premiere with dress rehearsal only a day away; nerves are starting to make themselves known. If that is what is happening to Elliot; Lucas is not privy because they still don’t talk. And it’s still Lucas’ fault.

Auguste continues to rant about the key plot development the scene is to convey; or is supposed to, at least. It is beginning to sound suspiciously like a lecture. “This is not a true to form-classical ballet performance. It is a modern, rather than a contemporary ballet. Romeo loves all things beautiful to him. Rosaline, Juliet, and Mercutio. You are boys of the street and your bond has been vital for your survival. I want people to go home, wondering; ‘If we met, would he love me too?’” he directs to Elliot.  “Do you need a break?” he asks then, impatience seeping into his words.

“Let’s try again?” says Eliott quietly, only to Lucas. Lucas agrees.

“With music now. Ivan, from the sixteenth time,” Auguste hums the passage. Then he turns to Lucas, Eliott and Hector and queues them to begin. Lucas is by the script sentenced to hang on to Eliott’s back as Romeo tries to shield Mercutio from Tybalt and while Mercutio is killed by the blade of the knife Lucas is killed slowly, but surely, by Eliott’s back under his hands. When he falls to his knees, Eliott goes with him and in a spur of the moment Lucas reaches out for and clings to his shoulder with one hand, his other covering his bleeding heart. Eliott catches on and crawls closer; he covers Lucas hand on his shoulder with his own, looks at his hand, his face; all care and come-hither. As Lucas starts sinking to the floor and Mercutio’s moment of death, Eliott folds down with him and hovers over him from the side.

“Yes. Yes; stay by him like that!” Auguste calls enthusiastically. Eliott moves his hand to Lucas imaginary wound and stares Lucas down into the floor with an intensity that makes him think he’ll leave a mark in the parquet. Then he climbs on top of him on his knees and elbows, stroking Lucas hair out of his forehead and puts his own there; grips his face and rocks them back and forth in grieving motion. Lucas thoughts are shattered but the notion that Eliott _could just angle his face down a tiny bit and he’d catch his lips_ stands out, bright and clear. Eliott bows down his head to his shoulder as the music indicates the fact; Mercutio is dead. Contrarily, Lucas is more alive than ever. And alive next to him, as proved by the steady _whosh_ of his breath across Lucas’ neck, is Eliott. Then Auguste applauses and Hector joins him.

Eliott lifts up on his arms, but doesn’t acknowledge the praise. He watches Lucas, who is laying there, flat on his back with his heart beating out of his chest. The rubber band is stretched so thin that Lucas is afraid for when it finally snaps.

“Well, had I known of this chemistry prior to today, I would have done something else entirely with this story. No offense, honey!” Auguste calls to Lucille who is watching from the side. “But you,” he turns to Lucas, “you have to try to look more dead.”


	6. Grand Allegro 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The slowest of burns is burning. A momentous premier is approaching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear reader, thank you for waiting. A big part of this story is already written, so look forward to more frequent updates. I was just slow because of real life events happening.
> 
> Artwork by the phenomenal Mme F. Merci ma belle ♥️  
> Disclaimer: None of the images in use are mine. They are copyrighted and should not be spread outside of this forum.
> 
> While I do have knowledge and experience of ballet and being a student at a classical dance school, some things have been altered to a less realistic respresentation for the purpose of creating an appealing story.  
> Note that Lucas' thoughts, the chat conversation and various French phrases and words are written in italics. I realize it may cause confusion, but I hope it won't. Don't hesitate to ask me if questions arise ♥️  
> This is part of a multichapter work that will update a couple of time each week. Until the end of time. Bisous (especially to my muses in SUF).
> 
> Kudos and Komments are highly appreciated ♥️
> 
> Written with utmost respect for the creators and characters of the original work.

 

 

 

Thursday February 14. 18.25

 _l’École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris_ // Almost there

Dress-rehearsal at l’École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris comes with an audience. Mainly, the optimistically cheering bystanders are family, or friends, or fucks. A phonetically harmonious group of people, who put themselves through the trouble of turning up either because they are passionate about dance or passionate about a dancer. Lucas has none of the kind there, except for Chloé who is honorably dancing Lady Capulet. That being said, Chloé is not all that honored by interpreting the role of a woman twice her age, but at the very least it is a second-lead. It is easy to imagine the backstage as a disorder of tulle, feathers and white powder; which it is to some extent, but it is a controlled mess. Every entry and exit; every costume on and off is precisely organized. The loges are a different matter entirely, but that is a problem to be dealt with after the curtains close.

Lucas stands next to the left wing,  in his remarkably untraditional attire; a black sleeveless shirt with the Montague Boys print, although his has a white-gray back to mark his detachment from the rivalry between the Capulet and Montague houses; black shorts and nude shoes. It is supposed to look as if they dance barefoot. His entry is in less than five minutes. Eliott steps up on the other side of the curtain next to Lucas, two minutes before his own entry, on the mark. He wears all black, except the shoes; looking like a natural born rebel. Before he strides in, as the lovelorn and enticed Romeo Montague, he approaches Lucas.

“I believe this is yours,” he says and pushes the mask into Lucas hand.

“Where did you get that?” Lucas looks around. He was just waiting for make-up to hand it to him. Eliott just raises his eyebrows quickly and smirks. “Actually, I believe it is yours,” Lucas remarks.

“You’re right,” says Eliott. He takes the mask and places it over his eyes. “Did you have time to think about it? Zorro or animal?”

Lucas is momentarily stunned by Eliott’s appearance. “Yes,” he replies but then the stage assistant puts his hand on Eliott’s arm and guides him to his designated entry spot. Lucas hears her say _30 seconds_ and Eliott hands the mask back to Lucas, with a wink of his eye. Yes, he has had time to think about it; he has thought about _everything_. _Dark knight, raton laveur, about whatever you are_. _About how to go through all the nooks and corners of your being and your body, until you’re a mystery only I understand._

 

Friday February 15. 20.47

 _l’Opéra national de Paris Palais Garnier_ // La première

It is a day of the year where nobody really says anything; they are biding time, nothing from the outside world penetrates; it is a bubble of concentration and varying degrees of anxiety.

You don’t disturb, unless you have good reason. They help each other; stretch, fine-tune costumes, adjust supports for feet and knees, cut tape, cut straps, break in shoes. Massage. They dote on each other, toward the common goal; the performance. It’s an integral quality in Lucas’ existence; the helping and nurturing of one another, so contrasting to the envy and competition. Both phenomena rely on the other; it is an endless loop of building up and breaking down. It’s also a make-shift substitute for the presence of a guardian. Many had left home early to attend the school. Just like Lucas had, and he does not want to think about what he would be without these people.

Lucas tries to channel all his pent up restless energy into his interpretation. Mercutio is a rascal risk-taker with a lot of attitude; prone to sudden flares of temper but loyal to a fault to the Montague Boys, especially to Romeo. Auguste has prolonged Mercutio’s life span in his creation, and Lucas doesn’t crush the plastic ampule of theater blood against his chest until the second act. The only person he has to let into his sphere of concentration is Eliott; their characters feed on each other. For the first time, in a month’s period, he can be around him and understand how to be. It figures, that it takes an actual script. He understands the dynamics and it is a relief from burden for his troubled soul. Nonetheless, the distance torments him. He wants back; closer, closer. Fuck how it messes with him; he just wants into the spotlight of Eliott again. He is even low-key salty over having to share Romeo with Juliet, which is so stupid that it makes him want to bang his head on the table; but he refrains, where he sits in the right wing waiting for the final act to come to an end. 

They are called in ten times; Eliott and Lucille even more. Lucas is high on endorphins, because his body is recovering and the premiere is over with; and even more so because it is praised. He receives a big bouquet of lilies and roses when it is his _reverence_ and he blows a kiss in the general direction of the audience.

His mother throws her arms around his neck with a squeal and kisses him when she catches him behind the curtains. There is a horde of parents, siblings and students mingling on the stage, creating a cacophony of voices and laughter.

“This is it, for you! I’m sure. _Mon amour_ , they must have seen you, anything less than recruiting you on the spot would be a disgrace!” His mother is euphoric; holding him by his jaws and shaking his head a little.

“That’s not a given, mom. We’ll see.”

“I watched you the entire time; you were perfect. Trust your mother, for once.” Based on past experiences, Lucas knows both not to trust his mother and that there is no use to argue with her.

“ _Merci_ ,” he says instead and holds up the flowers. “They’re lovely.” His mother caresses his cheek; and calms down a notch.

“I’m glad you like them. These; they made me think of you.” She thumbs one of the roses.

“How so?”

“I’m not sure. A bit thorny; but sweet.” Lucas smiles, puzzled by her comment. “Are you ready for the _soirée_?”

Behind her, Lucas sees Eliott walk toward the wing, holding a bottle and his bouquet, pushing a hand through his sweaty hair. He disappears into the corridors behind the stage.

“Sure. I have to go shower and change, actually. It’s time, soon.”

“Come visit, when you have the time,” his mother says before he pecks her on the forehead and leaves.

*

Lucas showers in a hurry. Inside him, there is a smoldering ardor gasping for air; it prickles his insides and has him breathing high in his chest. When he closes his eyes against the foamy shampoo, the feeling intensifies so he opens them; carefully rinsing the remnants from his hair. If there is a name for it, he can’t think it out loud yet.

He steps into his black jeans and puts on a gray sweater, almost forgets about deodorant and then runs the comb through his hair. _Useless_ , he thinks as he inspects the unruly strands of hair falling anywhere they please. It seems like long overdue somehow; like he is running for a train that just started to move from the station. When he knocks the door that says Loge 3, Eliott Demaury and Etoile, he realizes he jogged there, an impressive three flights of stairs. He tries to swallow his breath but doesn’t have time before Eliott Demaury, Etoile, opens the door. A frown of surprise comes and leaves.

“Hi,” he lights up and holds out the door for him.

“Hi. _Ça va_?” asks Lucas, immediately relieved that Eliott invites him in. Lucas doesn’t know what he expected. A reception, cheerleaders; something. But there are just the flowers, still wrapped in cellophane, sitting on the table next to a bottle of champagne. Eliott motions for him to sit.

“ _Oui, et toi_?”

“Are they from your family?” Lucas nods to the presents.

“No.” Eliott doesn’t give any further details.

“They’re not here?” Lucas says, tentatively.

“My family lives in the US.” Lucas does not remark that they could send him flowers anyway, and Eliott goes on “It is just me, _voilà_ ,” with a self-conscious laugh and a shrug. A wave of tenderness washes over Lucas as Eliott’s loneliness strikes him. It makes him glad he came, beyond his selfish reasons.

“It was you who I wanted to see anyway. _C’était ouf_. Congratulations.”

Eliott casts his gaze to the floor, but a smile creeps out on his lips. His face is naked; there are cotton pads with traces of his make-up scattered in front of the mirror. “Thank you,” he says simply. “ _Toi aussi_. You did him justice.” Eliott looks solemn, and when he leans back in his folding chair and spreads out his long legs in front of him; Lucas has to swallow.

“Are you happy?” he asks then, not used to the humbleness that Eliott projects.

“I am.”

“All good, _donc_.” Lucas eyes falls on the green bottle on the table. “We should make a toast.”

Eliott eyes glimmers. “Wanna open it?”

“Unless you plan to let it age.”

Eliott picks up and reads the label on the bottle. “You don’t let champagne age. Besides; what would be the point of that? I don’t believe in postponing. We might not be alive tomorrow.”

Lucas is disconcerted. “That’s horrible.”

“ _Mais, je plaisante_ ,” Eliott says and tears the wire and plastic off the bottle. “I’d be happy to finish this with you.” Lucas hadn’t actually suggested that they finish it, but why the hell not. If it allows him to stay longer, there’s not much he wouldn’t do. He is starting to discern the depths of his downfall. But what can he do? When Eliott looks at him like he just took down the moon and gave it to him, and now reaches for the stars.

“Do you?”

“Do I what?

“Do you know the art of _sabrage_?” Eliott says and makes a cutting motion towards the neck of the bottle with his hand.

“ _Aucune idée_.”

“You cut the neck with a saber or a sword or a knife. I have neither, here. Unfortunately,” Eliott says and looks around.

“Oh! Would have been the most theatrical way to go about it, for sure.”

“Wouldn’t it?” Eliott smirks. Then he opens the bottle and the cork shoots out with a pop that makes them both jump and cheer. “I think I hit the ceiling,” Eliott laughs and inspects it. Then the champagne flows over, down over his wrist and he curses and sucks at his skin. “ _Tiens_.”

“Wait, Mercutio would definitely let Romeo have the first sip,” says Lucas and pushes the bottle back in Eliott’s hands.

“You’re right.” He leans against the desk behind him. “But there are not a whole lot of things that Mercutio wouldn’t let Romeo have, on the other hand, right?” Lucas hears himself breath. “At least, in my perception of things.” Eliott says and looks at him impenitently, under dark eye lashes. He didn’t get all eye shadow off.

“No, I guess you could say... he is quite enchanted.”

A playful glint flickers in Eliott’s eyes, and he nods. “I guess you could say, that’s reciprocal, too.”

Their flirting burns a laceration of want in Lucas; _because that is what this is._ Eliott raises the bottle, unsure of what to say of the occasion. “Congratulations, Lucas. I have yet to see a better dancer than you.”

“Stop,” says Lucas and rubs his face. “You don’t have to do that. Say something clever instead.”

Eliott visibly searches his mind for something, eyes skating around the room. Then he recites quietly; “My only love sprung from my only hate; too early seen unknown, and known too late. Prodigious birth of love it is to me, that I must love a loathed enemy.”

“Wow. Did you learn all of Juliet’s lines?” Lucas teases to ease the tension because he’s starting to physically have to resist the pull of the rubber band.

Eliott gets up and turns on music on his phone. “I swear, never again Prokofiev after this is over.” 

Then he comes over, stands dangerously close to the gap between Lucas legs. He hands him the bottle. “Your turn.” _You’re the devil_ ; Lucas thinks when Eliott retreats back to his chair.

“Fuck, I think it left a dent.” Eliott squints at the ceiling. “It even made cracks in the paint, _putain_ , look!” he points and Lucas gets up.

“Wow, it’s a piece of work. If reviews aren’t what you hope for tomorrow, at least you know you’ve left a mark.”

“Ouch,” says Eliott and puts a hand on his chest at Lucas sarcasm. Then he gets up too, inspecting the broken spackle closer. “It’s beautiful, in a way.”

“You should tag it; it’s your craft.”

“I prefer to think of it as collaboration. It was your idea; I’m a simple handyman.”

Lucas laughs, the wine is starting to affect him.

“Okay. It’s a collab.”

Eliott finds a pen and climbs up on his chair. His shirt rides up over his stomach when he reaches up to his installation in the roof. Lucas is intoxicated, by alcohol and otherwise. Then Eliott looks down at Lucas, who fruitlessly tries to remain unaffected by the view. He is way too close to that pale skin, the movement and swell of long abs from his ribcage down to the elastic of his pants and Lucas can’t think about what comes under that. Eliott bites his lip, scribbling something by the half-moon shaped lesion. Lucas wonders briefly if he is completely oblivious to his own beauty. “ _Voilà_ ,” says Eliott.

Lucas reads aloud; “190215. E the starcrossed lover, witnessed by L, lion heart.”

Lucas intends to ask _why lion heart_ , but Eliott steps down from the chair and suddenly he is so close. Even if that might have been unintentional; Lucas can’t bear to move away and can’t bear to look anywhere; and Eliott tries to find him, his eyes two centrifuging wellsprings hauling Lucas in. “Are you happy?” Eliott echoes his question. Lucas can’t connect; only look at his mouth as it moves with his velvet voice. Eliott’s expression is so open yet probing; Lucas didn’t know a face could look like his; like Eliott’s. A small tilt of Eliott’s head; a surge forward like a heat wave with hesitation that rolls toward Lucas and nearly crests into him. Just when his lips part, the outside world demands brutal entry with a knock on the door and a theatrical voice infiltrates.

“Romeo, oh Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo!” The fragile cocoon around them is broken. They both recoil in shock. Eliott looks at Lucas, as if asking for permission, before he moves to the door. He stops in front of it, seemingly at a loss of direction. He looks at Lucas again, who is unable to be of any help. Instead he smooths his hands over his hair trying to adjust himself; the amount of messed-up he feels must be visible on the outside. The light from the outside seems sharp and intrusive when Eliott finally opens. Niels and Auguste jump out from the side, cheering and waving with flowers.

“There he is!” Auguste hollers and flings his arms around Eliott’s neck. “ _Mon petit_ , I am so proud.” When he sees Lucas he seems genuinely surprised but nevertheless ecstatic.  “Lucas, I didn’t see you there. Oh, you boys made it cozy for yourselves in here.”

“ _Félicitations_ , dear.” Niels kisses Eliott and wrinkles his nose. “You didn’t shower yet,” he points out. “Oh, that explains it. Hello,” he says when he sees Lucas, leaning back in the sofa and just about to help himself to more champagne.

“Don’t let Lallemant corrupt you” he explains. He is known for his devious ways. _Allez_ , shower. We talk later; we have a party to attend,” he continues and shoos Eliott towards the bathroom.

“ _Et toi_?”

“I’m prepared.”

“Except your clothes, they are not prepared.”

“What’s wrong with my clothes?”

Niels looks at him pointedly. “A lot, Lucas. Make some effort. This is your night too.” _Well, it almost was, until you showed up._  He gives up without a fight, too shook to summon any of his usual audacity. All he thinks about, when he wanders down the stairs to his own loge, is _how could they just barge in like that_. _Go out again and make it unhappen_.

*

He sits down briefly in his loge, looking around. It is the same as when he left for Eliott an hour before, but the room appears different; even his belongings do. Like everything is tilting on its axis; vibrating with expectation, waiting for progress, to know which way to go. In the meantime, it’s stuck, bereft of any development.

Projecting inner life on inanimate objects doesn’t seem like a road he should continue down. So he grabs his belongings and texts his friends.

_Lucas: Are you already there?_

_Arthur: Oh look who decided to grace us with a text._

_Basile: No, I went home. Gn_

_Yann: Same_

_Arthur: Oh actually same_

_Lucas: Drinks on me if you stop_

_Yann: Oui nous sommes là just waiting for you <3_

Lucas huffs at his phone. He hasn’t seen them a lot recently. He is beginning to itch to talk to them about what’s happening; it is against his nature to keep his personal life personal. _But what is happening? You can’t really say it to yourself yet, can you?_


	7. Grand Allegro 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Come, gentle night, come, loving black-browed night,  
> Give me my Romeo, and when I shall die,  
> Take him and cut him out in little stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I do have knowledge and experience of ballet and being a student at a classical dance school, some things have been altered to a less realistic respresentation for the purpose of creating an appealing story.  
> Note that Lucas' thoughts, chat conversation and various French phrases and words are written in italics. I realize it may cause confusion, but I hope it won't. Don't hesitate to ask me if questions arise ♥️  
> This is part of a multichapter work that will update weekly. Until the end of time. Bisous (especially to my muses in SUF).
> 
> Also, don't be alarmed by the chapter summary. It's just the longing for Romeo.
> 
> Kudos and Komments are highly appreciated ♥️
> 
> Written with utmost respect for the creators and characters of the original work.

 

Friday February 15.

 _Restaurant de l’Opéra national de Paris Palais Garnier_ // Never tear us apart

When it finally happens, it’s the wrong lips. Chloé’s mouth is familiar and strange when she seeks him out by the entry of the restaurant and kisses him. “You did great. People talk; everyone agrees.” Something is askew; she’s partly of another species, attempting to mimic human behavior, only getting it eighty five percent right. Lucas’ head is full of exclamation marks, shouting _almost! almost but not quite! try harder!_  as if there was a bridgeable gap between the prescribed and the sought-after and it makes him respond to her with fervor in a misguided quest for answers. Until whatever moral he facilitates catches on to what he is doing and he winces. Chloé asks if he’s alright.

When they sit, Lucas finds Eliott in the crowd, looking at him with an impenetrable expression.

“Dude, I met your mom!” Arthur says and slaps him on the arm.

“Oh! Congratulations”

“Funny. Has just been a long time since. She seems…good?”

“I agree.”

“Well, don’t you know how she is? You didn’t talk to her?”

“Yes but, I was in a hurry. There wasn't much time, anyway.”

“Seems like the wrong time to be in a hurry. Tonight is all about catching up and chilling.”

“Cheers to that.” They toast in water, which Arthur complains about. Lucas thinks he probably needs it but doesn’t object when Arthur says he’s getting them beers. He is jumpy and oscillates between extreme presence and distanced dopiness; so that it makes him think he might actually be losing his mind. The event is bordering on chaotic, as compared to how things usually go. Even the certified boring board lives it up a little. Maybe it’s due to the sudden relief from pressure. The premiere is over and no irreparable mistakes were made, at least not that anyone could see or tell about. While the increasing liveliness distracts Lucas from hearing his own thoughts it does not, however, distract him from Eliott. All evening Lucas knows where he is, except for a few rare moments of uncertainty, without even trying. It’s like he can’t help it. Eliott mingles like a professional and doesn’t appear to have a concern the world. It bothers Lucas; he has difficulties following through with even a normal conversation. His physical form sits through it all patiently, but that’s the extent of his achievements. The more he watches Eliott, the more agitated he gets. And aroused. So aroused that he maybe even could sleep with Chloé again if he can’t have what he wants. _Rip my morals._ That would be wrong so he won’t. She sits close to him with her knee pressing against his, leaning into his body but doesn’t pay any attention to his lack of response.

“Heard drinks were on you tonight; starting to believe that was fake news,” Basile comments after dinner. Lucas gets up, stretches and pops the joints in his back, and moves to the bar. Chloé comes after, says to get her a glass of red wine and excuses herself for the bathroom. He spots Eliott across the semicircle bar and is a little shocked of being so close to him after spending the last hours searching the vast crowd for his face. He is talking to Lucille, and Lucas jealously wishes he would save the smile adorning his face only for him. After placing his order, Eliott sees him too, and his face metamorphoses.

He blinks slowly and locks Lucas down in that very same manner that had him so shook he cut class for three consecutive days, a few weeks ago. Lucas immediate vivacity is pathetic even to himself, and he knows for a fact that he is more whipped than he ever has been. Eliott stays by the bar, taking out his tobacco and starts crafting a cigarette. When his tongue comes out to lick at the paper, Lucas has to look away. Then Eliott turns and makes his way through the crowd and Lucas follows him, with a caprice change of idea and action and aim he is not sure how to pursue. But he has to follow him. He hears Eliott greet the person working in the wardrobe on his way out, and walks by gingerly a few seconds later.

When he arrives outside, he spots Eliott in the far right corner. He sits there, like Michelangelo’s David, only clothed; on the plateau stone balustrade. He faces the planted little garden to the east of the terrace, with one leg pulled up in front of him.

“Hi,” he says to Lucas when he approaches.

“It is better here.” Lucas takes a deep breath, inhaling the silence and the chilled February night. Eliott nods and eyes him thoughtfully. Then he light’s up the cigarette. “It bores me, in there,” he continues just to say something, anything, about why he is there.

“You’re bored? You didn’t look bored.”

Lucas is unsure of what he means, but insists. “Your eyes betray you.” He stands in front of Eliott, who has turned his back to the garden. There is some distance between them but he already feels the electric buzz.

“Is that so?”

“That’s so. You’ve been watching me?” Lucas can’t stop the luring innuendo of his remark.

Eliott definitely hears it, because he smirks and takes a long pull on the cigarette. “Maybe.” Then he smiles, shrugs and looks around the terrace. “Let’s stay out here, then.” He produces as little transparent zip bag with weed from his back pocket and flicks it a few times.

“Do you always carry it around?”

“To events like these…pretty often,” Eliott confesses. Lucas laughs. “I don’t know if we should, this close to the _gendarmerie_.“ Eliott nods toward the building, referring to the school management, otherwise known as the police.

“I love this song,” Lucas interrupts when he hears a woman’s voice singing _never tear us apart_ from inside.

Eliott quiets and listens. “It’s a cover.”

“Even so. Anyway, fuck the _gendarmerie_ ” Lucas encourages and nods to the bag with a smile. “Roll it.”

Eliott fingers the bag and smirks at him. He doesn’t look away when he takes a long, slow drag on the cigarette and blows a smoke ring in Lucas direction. The air transforms; it can’t be the fruit of his imagination, no fucking way, not with the way Eliott stares at him. Lucas is enthralled by the vision that he makes.

“Are you trying to corrupt me, again?” Eliott says and offers him the cigarette. Lucas takes it from his hand and lets seconds pass; smoking.  

“Maybe. Is it working?” Eliott is silent, but his magnetism sucks at Lucas insides. Lucas shifts slightly toward him, decreasing the space minimally but Eliott feels it; he can tell. A moment of silent recognition passes and Lucas knows it before it happens. The climaxing stretch of the rubber band burns a slash to his gut the moment he gives in to its pull. Eliott’s hand comes up and grabs the side of his t-shirt and pulls him into him. He angles his head slightly down and when Lucas finally feels the flesh of his lips against his own, desire stabs him sharply. It makes his body surge forward without his say-so, into Eliott, and they back up against the railing.

They kiss long and still, afraid to move and break the spell. Until Eliott tilts his head, ever so slightly, letting the tip of his tongue lick along the slightly parted seam between Lucas lips and he feels the soft, wet inside of his mouth for the first time. Eliott opens his mouth for his yen and adoration, and Lucas just wants to take; take everything and Eliott gives. He dives blindly into the depths of their tongues sliding against each other, and hears the rhythm of Eliott’s breath change. He tastes like sweet pear liqueur and cigarettes, and his smell is archetypal but intoxicant; boyish masculine but with an underlying depth which is solely his own scent. Lucas inhales him greedily; he wants to save it in his olfactory library so he always can retrieve it.

Each touch and movement of Eliott against him and his own response is a relief he didn’t know he needed. Eliott breaks off but keeps his nose to Lucas’ and his hands on his neck. He smiles but Lucas is too affected to smile. In fact, he’d rather cry from the way Eliott looks at him, nobody ever looked at him the way he does. Then Eliott leans in again; cradling Lucas face in his hands, pulling him in just a little bit roughly and their kiss deepens; Eliott aims to devour him wholly. It makes Lucas pant into his mouth; he doesn’t care about camouflaging his desire any longer. Just when Eliott lets his hand come around to his back and they finally go in for more; more contact, more everything, a muffled “ _Oh_ my god,” breaks their coupling. Lucas jumps from Eliott’s body as if hit by the recoil of a shotgun but forgets to let his grip on his shirt go, and Eliott stumbles forward with him. They’re a mess of tangled arms and embarrassment and when they each catch their balance again, Manon says: “I am so sorry,” and she is actually covering her eyes with one hand; holding up the other one in disarm. Lucas looks at Eliott for direction, but he has none to offer. He just stands there; breathing, wipes the corner of his mouth discreetly with the back of his hand. “I only came looking for you because David’s speech is coming up.” Eliott gives Lucas a long look and says, “I’ll see you inside,” to both of them, and then “Salut,” to Manon, as he moves sideways past her.

Lucas still hasn’t caught his breath as Eliott leaves. Manon is speechless, and that is quite a feat. They stand silently in front of each other, assessing the situation.

“I’m sorry,” she says again.

“ _T’inquiète_.”

“I just came to tell you…”

“Uh-huh. Yeah, got it.”

“I thought you were smoking. “

Lucas has no response to that. Manon shakes her head as if to get the surprise out of her system.

“I need a moment before going back in there,” says Lucas.

“And Chloé? It could have been her that came out here. She would have caused a riot. You know that, right?”

“No Manon. I don’t know,” Lucas retorts and rubs his hands over his forehead. His body is slow to respond and his hands still smell like Eliott. It was so brief but he’s still recouping. He looks after him, even though he has disappeared inside since long. Feeling exposed, he tries to avoid her x-ray vision by looking anywhere but at her. He finds their old burned out cigarette on the ground, and pushes at it with his shoe, unaware of the traitorous smile that pulls at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh boy. You have it for him, don’t you? What’s going on, with you two?”

“Not a word, to anyone,” he says sternly. Manon cocks her head, incredulous.

“You’re really worried about _that_?”

“I’m just asking you, right now, not a word.”

Manon sighs; “We have to go.”

“Go?”

“Inside, Lucas; _merde_ , come back to earth. Come on.” She reaches out and grabs his hand, and pulls him with her. Before they reach the noisy crowd inside the restaurant, she leans over and hisses: “ _So_ … tasty, or what?”

Lucas almost stops in surprise, before providing her with his sauciest look. “What’d it look like, to you?”

*

“It has been an intense semester, and I think I speak for everyone when I say, well done, to all of our last year students. We were blessed, to get the chance to work with one of the most exciting new choreographers for this project. Auguste, come up here, please.” David leaves the podium to Auguste, who accepts the microphone and a bouquet, of an indefinitely large number in succession, with a humble bow.

“I accepted this offer with some hesitation, I admit. I wasn’t sure how my ideas would be received. It turned out, I severely underestimated the courage and ambition to modernize classical dance, that belongs to this institution and I would therefore,” Auguste says and turns towards David, “like to express my endless gratitude to David and the rest of the board, for having confidence in me, letting my follow the direction I wished for and for providing your limitless support in this pursuit.” Applauses make him pause. Lucas stands to the side, waiting to get called forth and Eliott is with Lucille on the other side of the improvised stage but his eyes are not there; they are on Lucas, making him sweat and hope he won’t be expected to actually say something once he is congratulated, because he would not trust his own voice to carry him.

“I am not finished, I am not finished,” Auguste speaks up again. “I’m not done with you,” he quips to the students. “I have a few words which I would like to direct to the students that have carried this huge responsibility on their shoulders, and done so with an honor and excellence that really speaks for the quality in their education. In my Romeo and Juliet, Romeo is of a different character than we have gotten used to. We know him as a hopeless romantic, which he very much still is, but his romance exceeds previous boundaries of sex and relation. The relationship between our Romeo and his Mercutio was key for this characteristic to come through. With that, I would like to direct a special thank you, to Lucas.”

Lucas is slightly puzzled by the acclaim; it’s unusual to overstep the traditions of tribute. He expected to get a flower and leave the stage for Eliott and Lucille, who typically would be the persons of interest. Nevertheless, he steps up next to Auguste, who hugs him warmly and kisses his cheek. “Eliott,” he directs over his shoulder and waves for him to come. Eliott steps up; hands in his pockets, surely wondering what is next as much as Lucas is. The inevitable _if people only knew_ train of thought makes Lucas insides churn, as Eliott approaches them.

“When I met you,” Auguste directs to them both, “I was initially uncertain, about how we would be able to find the expression for the relationship I had in mind. I should have known better; god knows I have choreographed young _enfants terribles_ before.” His remark gains laughter from the audience. Then he continues, soberly, “The way your connection has evolved is a beautiful thing. This, what you have presented, is what we mean when we say _chemistry;_ a connection that’s inexplicable, but palpable, for those who come across it. You have something special, that only you know how to reach.” As the world outside applauses, Lucas hears his own heartbeat loudly in his ears. “You both deserve all success that comes your way, and I’m sure there will be lots of it. Thank you, _mes petits_.” Someone hands Lucas flowers and he is kissed by everyone, except Elliot who looks like he doesn’t know where to put his hands and long arms, and then he jumps off the stage with some relief. He stays right by the side of it though, not willing to excuse himself through the crowd until the ceremony is over.

After some well-thought out phrases directed to Lucille, she is the sovereign female of the evening after all, David speaks up and Lucas expects him to wrap it up and starts looking around for his friends.

“Before I let you all go back to your evening, I need to take this opportunity to make an announcement.” He pauses, for effect. “We have just received word, Eliott and Lucille, that you are both accepted into the _corps_ of the ballet de l’Opéra national de Paris, without reservations, on the spot.” Cheers and ovation fills the space they are in, but the space in Lucas is a contrasting quiet. He had forgotten about this; that this could even happen, in his universe there had been no such thing lately. His universe had been reduced to a single galaxy of ruminating and longing and its only sun had been Eliott. He watches Lucille jump up and down in excitement, he watches Eliott hug her and he feels his nostrils flare. He grinds his teeth against the vehement humiliation that he feels, and quickly deduces he can’t stay a minute longer. He finds his table, takes his jacket in one hand, his phone in the other, and gets out. He feels ridiculous for making yet another dramatic exit, but it can’t be helped. Hopefully no one takes notice, except his friends. And if they find it stupid, _don’t be friends with me then._ He stomps down the Opéra metro station stairs and enters a waiting train. In all, it took him less than three minutes to leave the scene of mortification and slump down in a seat, but disgrace must run fast too, because he feels no better.

He sends an excuse to his friends, and receives a heart back from Arthur. Chloé calls but he turns the sound off. He pulls up the hood on his jacket and the train doors is just about to close with a shrill signal when a familiar voice says his name. Manon sits down next to him and looks at him with her deer eyes. She takes his hand, and says, “We don’t have to talk about it.” He lets his head fall on her shoulder.

“Thank you. I love you.”

“I love you too. Also, you don’t have any keys, they’re with me,” Manon says as the train leaves the station.


	8. Grand Allegro 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picking up right where we left off.
> 
> Oh and I guess a warning for sexually explicit content is suitable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I do have knowledge and experience of ballet and being a student at a classical dance school, some things have been altered to a less realistic respresentation for the purpose of creating an appealing story.  
> Note that Lucas' thoughts, chat conversation and various French phrases and words are written in italics. I realize it may cause confusion, but I hope it won't. Don't hesitate to ask me if questions arise ♥️  
> This is part of a multichapter work that will update weekly. Until the end of time. Bisous (especially to my muses in SUF).
> 
>  
> 
> Kudos and Komments are highly appreciated ♥️
> 
> Written with utmost respect for the creators and characters of the original work.

 

 

Saturday February 16. 00.24

 _the apartment_ // Out

Lucas wants to talk about it, though. Especially when they sink down into their sofa, pull a blanket over their bruised and sore bodies and Manon opens a bottle of wine. It’s too late to pretend, anyway; Manon saw what she saw and it will eat him up completely unless he gets some relief soon. Moreover, Mika enters their home barely 15 minutes after and demands answers.

“I’m a failure,” Lucas says gloomily.

“Don’t be so extra. It’s a bit much, Lucas. You saying that you’re a failure is offensive for actual failures. It’s like when beautiful people say they’re ugly. Like, how are the rest of us supposed to feel.” 

Manon laughs and sinks down further into the couch, her head against the cushions.

“Fine. But that’s how I feel, whatever you say I have the right to feel like I do, no?”

“Just offering some perspective.”

“He just came here. Stole my part and then tried to seduce me.”

“Hey, ho; wait a second,” Manon says and sits up again. “Are you angry at him because of… whatever is happening between you two? Lucas shrugs. The downside of opening up is that it forces introspection. “Also, _tried_? Quite successfully; it appeared to me at least.”

“Your point being?”

“Look, Lucas. I don’t know what has been going on between the two of you. You might have reason to blame Eliott. But I know you, a little bit. Ending up where you did, tonight, with him… do you really think you would have, unless it was something you wanted, too?” Manon asks cautiously and puts a hand on Lucas arm. He has no valid response. He knows all of this.

“It’s just a bit much, all at once. I only have the dance, it’s… I don’t have anything without it,” he states quietly. “And, I didn’t really know about… about _this_ , until recently. Until he came here.”

“ _This_ being? That you like dick?” Mika quips and refills his glass.

“Mika, don’t… don’t use your strong words right now,” Manon hushes.

“I don’t necessarily like dick you moron.”

“No? Then what are you even doing with him?” asks Mika.

Lucas sighs in impatience. “Well, fine, maybe I like dick a little bit then.”

“ _Voilà_ , progress. He admits to liking dick a little bit. Why didn’t we have this intervention earlier.”

Lucas phone vibrates and all eyes are on it in an instant.

_Eliott: Where are you?_

Lucas groans and puts the phone down. He looks pleadingly at his friends, _leave it._

“Huh, so, but did you have sex?” Mika continues, unfazed. Lucas feels blush creeping up his cheeks at the mere suggestion.

“No. That, that earlier,” he says to Manon, “was the first time we kissed, in fact.”

She inhales sharply and puts her hands to her face. “ _Non_!”

“Jesus, you – I can’t believe you!” Mika chides and throws a pillow at Manon. “You interrupted this lost child’s first gay kiss; there’s a special place in hell for you. You sleep on the couch tonight.”

Manon and Lucas exchange a look. “Okay but, why? Is that my punishment, or what? We don’t share a bed, in case you forgot” she says to Mika.

“No, but it’s what you deserve anyway.”

Lucas phone lights up yet another time, just when he gets into bed. The photo that Eliott sent pictures the front of an INXS vinyl, with Never tear us apart written in white on black at the top right corner, resting in Eliott’s hand.

*

After coming out to Manon, albeit inadvertently, and Mika, Lucas finds the strength to refrain from Chloé the day after. That’s a sinking ship, anyway.

By Sunday, he starts thinking he should have replied to Eliott. But it is too late and too weird to do it now. _Right_? He had never had any game regarding texting. He is always too obvious or not obvious enough; he needs a support person to this purpose only. It’s especially difficult now, so he shuts his fingers up. His fingers are, however, not pacified when the memory of Eliott’s lips, his tongue and his quickening breath to Lucas touch fires up. Which it does, repeatedly. It visits him as soon as there’s a quiet moment and by Monday he searches those quiet moments out just to indulge himself.

Tuesday evening finds him exhausted in the changing room. He shares a protein shake that tastes like paper and dried strawberries with Yann, while they unwind from rehearsal. He shows Lucas the mercy of not inquiring about his sudden departure on Friday. He probably understands anyway. At least, he understands half of it. That’s one of the reasons for Lucas increasing compel to share his recent endeavors with his friends; pure vanity. He doesn’t want them to think that his ego is so infinitely fragile that his only reason to flip out is the role. They decide to have dinner on Thursday and it calms him a bit; guilt for being an absent friend has been eating at him. And he misses it; the normalcy of companionship. Not that he’d be trusted with food preparations, but at least he’ll be there. Yann finishes up before him and says goodbye while Lucas is just getting dressed. Maybe some time; maybe Thursday; he’ll tell him, that he has kissed the devil and an angel all rolled into one mindfuckingly beautiful individual, and that he has been a lost cause ever since. His and Eliott’s stolen kiss had not soothed his yearning one bit. Rather, the reverse development has occurred over the weekend. He wonders if he should explain himself; he is so tired of feeling guilty all the time but it’s still there. There’s someone who needs to hear from him. And he thinks that that person is Elliot. Maybe Eliott doesn’t want to, or need to; but Lucas needs him to hear from him. Things can’t stay like this forever; this is purgatory.

Cursing his messiness, he heads back to the studio to look for his missing scarf.

 

Tuesday February 19. 20.30

 _l’École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris_ // Consume me

Eliott stands, still like a statue, with hands on his hips in the middle of the studio when Lucas enters. Apparently deep in concentration because he jumps when Lucas closes the door behind him.

“Fuck, you scared me,” he exclaims and turns down the music.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to; I’m looking for my scarf, says Lucas, but the last words fade away. Eliott is wearing black jeans and a black t-shirt with a round, loose neck that reveals his collar bones. And he is barefoot. He does not appear to be dressed for dancing. “What are you doing?” Lucas continues and takes a few steps into the studio.

“I was just going through something. It’s not for school, it’s… it’s my own- something else.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“I’m having problems with it. With the music. I can’t choose.” Eliott picks up his phone and starts scrolling. Lucas takes any invitation he can get, and puts down his bag on the floor.

“Between what?”

Eliott looks up at him. “Give me your thoughts.” Lucas nods and waits. When Eliott sits down on the floor, he does too. “I thought I knew. I knew, but I’m not sure anymore.”

“How long have you been working on it?”

“Only a month.” Eliott turns up the volume again and restarts the song. “Sometimes I’m so ambivalent. It makes me crazy.” Lucas stays quiet and takes Eliott’s presence in. He has a restless energy about him that Lucas only saw once before; during one of the last few rehearsals before the premiere. Agitated and focused, synchronously. After listening for a minute, he seems to leave his creative pursuit and Lucas senses he’s about to say something; something else. “I like this one. But, it’s hard for me to say, without knowing more about your ideas.”

“I know,” Eliott says with a little smile. “But it’s a secret.” Then he gets up, sticks the charger into his phone and leaves it by the grand piano. Lucas sits where he left him.

“I’m sorry, about Friday. For taking off without- without… And, for not replying. I-” Lucas thinks that he probably should have put some more thought into how to explain. And what to explain, as well.

Eliott stays by the piano and leans back against the barre, remaining quiet for a few long moments. “Is there anything else that you are sorry about then?” he says. Lucas hears what he’s not saying.

“No,” he says with a low voice. “Not that.” He gets up, feeling too far but afraid to overstep some invisible border. He comes to a stop on the opposite side of the piano. A sparkle of confidence returns to Eliott’s eyes. He drills through Lucas across the distance between them. “Madame Capulet,” he says, “You have something with her.”

His avoidance of Chloe’s name is not lost on Lucas. _That’s what concerns him_? He starts rounding the piano, in a slow semi-circle. “I don’t… I don’t enjoy that.”

Eliott leans on his elbows, on the top barre and the call of come-hither radiates when he says “What do you enjoy, then?”

Lucas swallows, willing his heart not to jump up out of his throat. “I don’t know,” is all he musters, but he continues his slow approach toward Eliott.

“Do you want to know?”

He is barely a meter away suddenly, and Eliott looks nowhere but at him. He wants to know; he needs to know so badly. When he sees Eliott’s eyes rake down his face and land on his mouth, he finally gathers the courage to close the distance between them and he kisses him, feverishly pressing his lips to his. There is no quiet reverence about it this time, Eliott sighs into him immediately and the soft, wet slide of his lips makes Lucas grab at his body with instant zeal. Eliott strokes up his shoulders and neck, and Lucas briefly reflects on how big and unapologetically male his hands are. If being touched like this isn’t the whole purpose of his existence then what is. He was made to be touched like this and he wants more, with an alarming urgency. In response to the heat Eliott adjusts his stance slightly to make Lucas fall in with a leg between his. It draws a moan out of Eliott and Lucas pulls back to watch him but Eliott comes after and kisses him, searches his tongue and holds his jaw in a steady grip. He feels a surge of power at the passion that Eliott chases him with, and he wants to rub and grind until there’s nothing left of them but a wet spot. Eliott reads his mind, breathing hotly into his mouth as he runs his left hand up into his hair and the right down to his hip; holding him in place against his body and rolls his hips into him with a long sweeping thrust. It makes Lucas groan against his lips, and Eliott’s tongue flicks in the sound. Lucas feels like he’s about to duck under from violent pleasure when Eliott starts up a slow rhythm of thrusting and his breath is starting to come so hard it’s almost a moan. Lucas clutches at his hair for support too, so he can balance his forehead against his. Eliott’s eyes are like lighthouse torches, constantly searching Lucas face to keep them as close as possible through the movement. Lucas grabs the barre behind Eliott’s back for leverage and when he meets his hips with resistance he feels his matching erection against his own. He whines indistinctly in the back of his throat at the sensation and Elliot sees they need more of that as well, scrabblling to open his zipper. Lucas dick, still in his underwear, juts out immediately and they both pause for a second. It’s all he can do not to come untouched like a virgin at Eliott’s beauty. His hand goes from Eliott’s hair, to his chin, caressing his lower lip with his thumb. He wants to own him and be owned in return; even if just for a brief moment. Then he leans in and puts his hand back on the barre behind him, the other one grabbing at the waist of Eliott’s jeans, and rolls his hips into him again and again; and Eliott starts to crumble apart in his arms. His voice is almost a cry when he mumbles _Putain_ against Lucas cheek, and Lucas needs to kiss him so he does; getting lost quickly in his arms around him, his body flush to his own, the insistent message that oscillates between their bodies: get closer, closer, until it burns.

Lucas is getting so lost that he doesn’t hear the voices echoing outside the studio; but Eliott does and pulls away from his lips instinctively, pulling him in tighter in a protective embrace and turns him a little to the side. They both stare, panicking, at the door. Lucas body is slow to react to the sudden turn of events and he lets out a breathy moan.

“Shh,” Elliot’s hand comes up and with an index finger across Lucas lips and he huffs a quiet laughter over his breath. As soon as their eyes catch the fire flares back up in spite of the potential threat of reveal; the immediacy is almost ridiculous. “We can’t get caught here like this,” Eliott mumbles, his breath warm over the side of Lucas’ face. The voices retreat and Lucas allows himself a breath of relief. Then he proceeds to place a wet press of his lips against Eliott’s finger and rubs them along it slowly, impressed by his own boldness. Eliott’s mouth falls slightly open and he stares at Lucas lips and his own hand. Then he grips Lucas neck and brings their lips together over his finger, searching Lucas tongue and letting his finger dip into the wetness of his mouth briefly. The slide of their tongues makes them clutch and grapple each other with increasing desperation; the loss of composure growing incrementally.

Eliott groans and tries to pull off half-heartedly. “Lucas…Lucas.” He must have seven kinds of duh on his face, because Eliott smiles and snickers a little at the sight of him when they finally break apart.

“What?”

“I would love nothing more than to lay you down on this floor, and give it to you, or take it from you, whichever way you want it to be.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” Lucas searches his mouth again. “But, but. _Putain merde_ ,” Eliott breathes when he pushes forward. He can’t help but dig his fingers into the fleshy muscle of Lucas’ butt once again, pulling his crotch onto his own. Lucas observes the effect he has on Eliott; he is amazed by it and wants to use it.

“You were saying?” he says and pushes a hand under Eliott’s t-shirt, over his abs and up to his shoulder where his hand becomes visible again at the neck of his shirt. Eliott knows what he’s up to; he looks at him with and expression dripping of sexual innuendo. He leans back against the barre and juts his hips out just so, dropping his eyes to Lucas’ hand as it starts a slow descent over his chest and stomach. His skin makes Lucas think of warm cream and he indulges the sensation longer than he first intended to. Eliott’s intense stare on his hand conveys urgency, though. As he starts fumbling with the buttons of his jeans Eliott’s breaths already come heavy, anticipatory, and his entranced gaze never leaves Lucas’ fingers. Lucas opens his jeans carefully like he’s opening a present and when he gets the last button open and slides his fingers inside, Eliott’s hand comes up in an iron grip on his shoulder. Lucas is in awe; Eliott is so big and so hard, just for him. It’s already the most erotic experience he has ever had and he didn’t even fully get his hands on him yet; he is only tracing the outline of his cock through his underwear. Eliott moans a breathy _ah_ and his eyes screw shut as he strokes his thumb over the head of his dick. Lucas feels guilty, suddenly; maybe they should leave, if Eliott is not comfortable. Lucas wants him comfortable and preferably more than that.

“We can leave, if you want. Go somewhere else,” he whispers, rubbing their lips together. Eliott flashes a mischievous grin and opens his eyes slowly.

“Come, or go? Make up your mind.” They laugh quietly and kiss; unified in their secret. Lucas needs no further convincing. He pushes his hand past the waistband of Eliott’s boxers and closes his fingers around his cock, so hot and heavy in his hand it feels like it’ll leave a print in his palm. Finally getting his hands on him like this shocks Lucas system violently. It’s so intimate, so personal and he revels in it. He tries so hard to be attentive through his own arousal and watches Elliot’s face closely as sensations dynamically pattern and trace it; like the quick passage of clouds on a stormy sky. He moves his hand up and back down, back and forth, slowly spreading his precome, molding his hand to a wet tunnel for Eliott to fuck or to fuck Eliott with. On a whim, he leans in and puts his mouth to his ear, pulls his lips over its lateral, soft ridge and starts whispering while mercilessly working his cock.

“You’re so fucking hot. And hard, Eliott… it drives me mad.” He semi-blushes at his own words, but he needs to say it. His breathy confession sends Eliott into a frenzy that has him close to careening over the edge; his moans become hectic and he grips Lucas neck harder.

“Fuck, god…,” he pants. “I’m not gonna last if you keep that up.”

Lucas pulls his head back to kiss him thoroughly while slowing down his hand momentarily. Eliott’s lips are red and swollen and he looks so wrecked that Lucas almost feels protective. He caresses his cheek with his free hand tenderly and watches Eliott break into a smile, piercing Lucas with his gray-blue weapons of eyes as he opens them a little. Then Lucas returns to his ear; he has no intention of letting Eliott last. He’s going to take him all the way, so far he won’t know what hit him when it’s over. He flicks his tongue underneath his earlobe and up briefly into his ear, and then bites down where he can reach, pulling softly. “Good,” he murmurs and starts up the rhythm on his cock again. Eliott moans on each stroke, burying his forehead in the crook of Lucas’ shoulder, while watching his hand on himself. He grasps for support on Lucas neck and back, and starts fucking his hand in earnest. “Yeah,” Lucas encourages in his ear again, although it is getting difficult to keep his lips planted there because of Eliott’s pushing, clinging and rubbing of his face against Lucas’. In an instant, his body goes stiff as he chokes a high-pitch garbled groan against the skin of Lucas’ neck and almost pulls his hair out with it roots, and spasms towards him. “ _Ah putain, putain, putain_ ,” he chants as he orgasms and comes in Lucas hand and all over his t-shirt. Lucas strokes him through it with overflowing fascination and passion, holding his face with his free hand.

Eliott slumps, boneless, against Lucas, breathing as if he just finished a marathon. Then he pulls back and crushes his mouth to Lucas’; his lips bitten and hot. Lucas almost can’t believe what just took place, he never knew he was capable of feeling such bliss from just touching and watching. He looks at Eliott who is still recovering. He smirks drowsily, apparently out of words too. He bites his lip, laughing at the dripping mess between them. “Wow,” he says then, “that was a long time coming. In every sense.”

Lucas smiles, suddenly shy, still holding Eliott’s dick in his hand, not ready to let go yet. His smile does however nothing to hide his own burning and unhandled desire. Eliott skims his hand over his cock, and he grimaces with feverish want. Eliott looks around and seems to think. Then his eyes glitters.

“Zip up.”

“What?” Lucas says, dumbfounded. Eliott is already untangling their limbs from each other.

“Zip up. We’re going to my place.” Lucas responds slowly, through his haze. Eliott, the beautiful, looks at him then, a flash of insecurity to his facial features. “If you want to,” he adds.

 _If he wants to_? Lucas almost laughs but then his motor functions kick back in and he scrambles to close up his pants. “I want to.”

“Good. _Allez,viens_.”


	9. Grand Allegro 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter summaries aren't my thing. But be warned, explicit content ahead.  
>  Love certainly is a doing word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music has inspired me a lot in the writing of this story. For this chapter, i recommend following songs.   [Teardrop](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u7K72X4eo_s)   [Gobsmacked](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u7K72X4eo_s)   
>  While I do have knowledge and experience of ballet and being a student at a classical dance school, some things have been altered to a less realistic respresentation for the purpose of creating an appealing story.  
>  Note that Lucas' thoughts, chat conversation and various French phrases and words are written in italics. I realize it may cause confusion, but I hope it won't. Don't hesitate to ask me if questions arise ♥️  
>  This is part of a multichapter work that will update weekly. Until the end of time. Bisous (especially to my muses in SUF). Kudos and Komments are highly appreciated ♥️ Written with utmost respect for the creators and characters of the original work.

 

 

 

Tuesday February 19. 21:45

_La résidence - l’École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris (Eliott’s apartment)_

// love is a doing word

At first glance, the place barely looks inhabited. The small entrance is dark; even after Eliott turns on a lamp in its right corner it is still hardly dusk around them. Eliott throws his jacket on what Lucas assumes is a chair, although it rather resembles a chaotic textile miscreation with four legs.

“It’s like the Bermuda triangle of clothes. Once something enters it; you’ll never see it again,” Eliott comments. Then he takes a big step over the shoes and opens two white sliding doors with rectangular frosted glass centers. “Come in. If you dare.”

Lucas is puzzled by his comment but it would be ridiculous to say Of course I dare, so he just follows him. Eliott shows him his living room and his presence starts to emerge; dispersed dancing attire, shoes, tape and tiger balm, a bandana and drying laundry hanging over every chair and door available, and what appears to be a vinyl collection in two plastic boxes on the herringbone parquet flooring.

“How did you get this place?” Lucas peeks into the entrance again and counts to at least two other rooms connected to it. “It’s thrice the size of the others.”

Eliott gives a suggestive raise of his eyebrows. “ _Nan_ , it’s because I transferred mid-year, I think. This is all they had, to put me in.”

“You have seen the other residence apartments, right? They are match boxes.”

“I heard. But, I mostly use this room, anyway.”

Eliott folds his long legs under him and sits by the boxes of vinyls and starts flipping through them. Lucas looks around the room with a sense of privilege. He has the feeling that he is the first to visit Eliott in his home. Not because of the relative untidiness; the image of other people than Eliott and himself here just won’t come to mind.

To the right of him, on a gray wall, hangs a large black and white photo print of George Balanchine; picturing him in a moment of artsy, physical choreographing.

“What do you want to listen to?”

“You decide.”

Eliott looks at him over his shoulder. “I decide?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m an awful decision maker, or so history says.”

“Well, practice makes perfect, no?”

Eliott snorts. “Obviously, that’s what a l’École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris-valedictorian would say,” he shoots at him.

Lucas winks, “Born and bred, baby.”

To the right of the Balanchine print is a messily assembled collage of photos and posters. The contemporary affection that Lucas perceived early on materializes. He recognizes the faces of Martha Graham, Twyla Tharpe and William Forsythe. There are some others, which he can’t name, that he assumes are from the same sphere of influence.

“I like her take on Rite of Spring,” Lucas says and points at the polaroid of Martha Graham.

“I prefer Lamentation.” Eliott slides an LP out of its cover, and blows on it. Coincidentally, Lucas knows that one too.

He nods. “It had me mindfucked for a while. It was dark.”

“Are you afraid of the dark?” Eliott looks up at Lucas from where he sits, then gets up and puts on the record, and comes to stand next to Lucas. 

“Depends.” Eliott looks at him with an unreadable expression. Then he turns to the wall of accomplished people in front of them, nods towards it and says “At least, she had the courage to show something real on stage.”

“You’re right,” Lucas says, and he is. There are few other things that make him as uncomfortable as the all-pervading artificial display of emotion in classical dance performance.

“Do you have a favorite?” Eliott asks.

“Martha. Forever.”

“Me, too. Come.” Eliott smiles and moves past Lucas, into what he assumes is the kitchen.

“I still think it could work out between us.”

“Oh, yeah?” Eliott calls from the other room, from where Lucas hears clinking of glass. “Unless she had died 25 years ago, you mean?” Lucas follows him. Seeing Eliott in his own home is different than anywhere else. He is relaxed and sure and Lucas watches every step he takes as he moves about in the kitchen; transfixed by his lanky, athletic body to the point that he forgets what he said.

Eliott sets down two glasses on the kitchen table next to Lucas and removes the cap from a bottle with thick gold-brown contents. “I don’t know,” he says, as he fills one glass. “I’m not sure she’s your type.”

Lucas feels a boyish smile tug at his lips. “No? But, you know my type, then?”

Eliott pours into the second glass and looks up at him through his eyelashes. “I have an idea.” He gives one glass to Lucas; it smells strongly of lemon and cinnamon. “An _apéro_.” Lucas feels like a boy offered alcohol for the first time in Eliott’s strong air of masculinity and effortless style, even if they must be practically the same age. When Eliott clinks his glass and puts his riveting eyes on Lucas lips as he mouths at the liquid, he is brutally made aware of the precarious situation in his boxers as a sharp shot of hot blood pumps through him.

“Let’s go in there,” says Eliott and nods his head toward the living room.

The trip-hop that he has put on is one hundred percent in line with the dark and seductive energy he is projecting. Lucas sinks down in the sofa, thinking that a drink was a good idea to take the edge of the nerves that increasingly are making themselves known inside him. Eliott fishes up a lighter from his back pocket and lights five half burned-out candles in the window. Sitting down, he proceeds to take a bag of weed out from a box shaped like a naked woman riding on a dolphin on the little improvised living room table in front of them. Lucas rubs his hands together approvingly, as Eliott rolls it up and hands it to him.

“No scandals on school nights,” Lucas quotes their teacher.

Eliott breaks into laugh. “I was just going to say.” He opens a window and sits down on the window sill. “I think that ship has sailed.”

 _If the state of my t-shirt is any indication, then yes,_ Lucas thinks. He takes in the vision of Eliott, sitting with a leg pulled up in the window, gazing over the deserted park below them; his skin reflecting golden light from the candles. Lucas steps in by the window and leans against its frame, lighting the joint. He’s so close that he could touch him, just reach out or even accidentally so, but he feels uncharacteristically reticent. He is on uncharted waters, led astray by a siren song.

“You think it holds me?” he says and tests the sturdiness of the window sill with the palm of his hands.

“I don’t know. Let’s find out,” Eliott says and reaches for the joint, his fingers grazing the inside of Lucas’. He makes room for Lucas on the marble board and Lucas lifts himself up, feeling like the closeness to Eliott’s legs will burn holes in his jeans.  

“When will you tell me more about your secret little project?” Lucas asks after a beat, when a song plays that reminds him of their chance crossing earlier.

“I won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because then it won’t be a secret little project anymore, will it?” Eliott says, with a smirk.

Lucas rolls his eyes at him. “I’m bad with secrets,” he says. “Too curious.”

“Mmm. I can tell.” The record catches, causing a distorted repetition of the last few tones and Eliott curses and heaves himself down on the floor. He fiddles with the vinyl player where it sits on a high chair behind the open windowpane, struggling to get the needle right again but gives up shortly and changes the track.  He turns around, looks at Lucas through the glass, while the song starts to play. _Love is a verb, love is a doing word_ resonates in the room and Eliott comes around the window and places himself in front of Lucas. He remains there as he revives the joint, and plants his hands on each side of him; leaning on the window sill, caging him between his arms without touching. Wordlessly, Eliott takes a deep drag on the joint and leans forward with a small tilt of his head into Lucas absolute propinquity. Lucas parts his lips like he’s been waiting for it. The soft purse of his lips closes in to a hair’s breadth of Lucas’, letting out a thin rivulet of smoke. Eliott lingers while the white, cloudy strands of smoke from their exhale twirls around his face, while the seconds tick. Lucas has every intent of letting Eliott take the lead. He needs both the guidance and the comfort, but the magnetic pull of Eliott’s face is so strong he can taste it. The sandy red of his lips draws his eyes; he stares, begging silently to be kissed.

 

“ _T’es trop beau_ ,” Eliott says, eyes wandering over Lucas face, still maintaining a gap between them. Then he puts a hand on Lucas right thigh and draws a slow line, up and down, with his index finger. The rubber band pulls at Lucas with such force that it might split him in two when it snaps; but he doesn’t care much. Eliott’s compliment drives him; it’s a simple matter to just lean in and put his lips to his; beckoning. He hears Eliott inhale sharply at their contact and his hands fly up promptly to cup Lucas jaw. He sucks gently at Eliott’s lower lip, because kissing, he knows. Moving in, Eliott spreads his legs apart with his hips into a provocative position and their conversation dies a quick and painless death.

When Eliott takes the glass from his hand and puts it down, pulling him down from the window and slides his hand around the small of his back, Lucas is fascinated by the events unfolding; by Eliott unfolding. He kisses him, openly, wetly, without excuse or hesitance; gradually maneuvering Lucas around in the other direction at the same time. It feels poignant; serious, it is just them and nobody can get to them. Lucas is hyperaware but dreaming; it is a blissful state induced solely by Eliott. When they’ve turned 180 degrees, Eliott pulls back and walks Lucas backwards with a soft grip on his arms. “Come,” he whispers, as if Lucas needed convincing.

Eliott’s bed comes up behind his legs and the proximity makes Lucas swoon with its implications. He’s still not sure what’s next but can’t fucking wait to find out. Eliott pushes his hands under Lucas t-shirt and grabs the bottom of it; pulling upward but leaves it halfway off, only his face and ears sticking out of the neck. He kisses Lucas nose and giggles at the vision he makes. Lucas grunts _connard_ and pulls it off his head; throws it around Eliott’s neck and hauls him in. They remain poised, forehead to forehead, breathing until Eliott easily frees himself of his bond, takes the shirt from Lucas hands and bends down to his neck, slowly parting his lips against his skin. He smooths his hands up Lucas abs and digs his fingers into his pectoral muscles; making Lucas breathe heavily through gritted teeth. He squirms to get closer to Eliott’s body, but can’t; Eliott puts a hand on his chest and gives a shove and has him down on his bed, surprised and half-sitting. He bends down, pulls Lucas chin up with his hand and kisses him. Lucas sits like he is drinking from a waterfall; Eliott would be the fall, and his kisses the water. And Lucas is thirsty.

Lucas is still almost untouched and spreads his legs to make room for his dick, pushing insistently against his jeans. Eliott’s soft licks against his tongue make him start to hurt and he wants to grab and take, but he’s not sure what he’s doing. Eliott knows what he’s doing, though, and pulls off his own t-shirt; discarding it carelessly behind him. He towers majestically over Lucas in a way that he’s inclined to fall to his knees and pray but he just remains perched on the bed, drinking Eliott in. He looks like sin, incarnate, staring down at him. Eliott’s excitement is evident from where Lucas is sitting but he doesn’t let him focus on anything but his mouth and hands to his body.

He bends down, falling into Lucas’ kiss again; angling him up by a hand in his hair, the other one coming up his leg, retracing the same invisible line he drew just before, then massaging the inside of his thigh languidly. He pulls off Lucas lips and looks at him while he rubs him further and further up his thigh. His grip around the back of his head is bordering on demanding and his eyes are dark; no girl ever behaved like this with him and Lucas savors it. His hand comes up to grab Eliott’s bicep to reinforce his touch, or to steady himself; he doesn’t know.

When Eliott’s hand gets close to his crotch, he stalls and stops the manipulation of his flesh for a moment, and Lucas immediately wants to curse at him for his torture but then, without preamble, he slides his hand the rest of the way up and pushes his palm against his dick, gripping him through his jeans.

“Ah, _merde_ ,” Lucas breaths and twitches involuntarily and drops his eyes to where Eliott’s hand meets his body. He rolls his hips up with purpose, into Eliott’s hand, urging him on. He responds rapidly and starts opening Lucas jeans. He can barely sit still. Spreading Lucas knees, Eliott kneels between them. Lucas is momentarily confused; Eliott notices and flashes a smile. It is not until he puts his warm lips against the skin under Lucas belly button that it dawns on him that Eliott is, in fact, going down on him. The realization makes is hard to hear anything but his own desire, screaming for the wetness of Eliott’s mouth and hard to see anything but him; as he puts one hand on Lucas chest, pushing intently to make him lean back. 

With a kiss on the inside of his wrist, Eliott removes Lucas hand from his jaw and says “ _Allez_ , lay back.”

As Lucas reclines on his elbows, there is a warm gush of air onto his cock through his underwear, when Eliott makes quick work of opening his jeans all the way and goes straight for it with his mouth. He kisses him slowly through the fabric, dirty kisses on the top of his cock while he draws lazy circles on Lucas stomach with his fingertips; tracing them feather light up and down his abs, while looking up at him. Lucas is struggling to stay on his elbows; if Eliott only knew the effort he has to summon to contain himself. He is pathetically wound up and beyond salvation, since what surely must be years.

Eliott is taking his sweet time though, rubbing his lips in maddening kisses over Lucas dick, all along its length, making him pant and move his hips restlessly to increase the friction. His throat feels constricted and dry but it doesn’t help when he swallows. When he, after what appears an eternity, feels Eliott’s fingers hook around the waistband of his underwear, his dick escapes up against his stomach, hard and sensitive. Having Eliott this close to his naked cock makes it start to pulse instantaneously. Eliott looks at it, palpably turned on.

“I’m gonna last 5 seconds, I swear.” That’s all that is left of him, and Eliott deserves to know what he’s done to him.

Eliott hums, approvingly; he loves this. He kisses deliberately up Lucas cock, stopping just before he reaches its head. Lucas is already a writhing mess in front of him, angling himself towards him. He wants to scream in frustration from not getting what he wants and he grits his teeth strenuously against it. Eliott starts over with the same procedure, over and over, until he suddenly slips out his tongue against his shaft, licking up his slit. A distorted whimpered _Ah fuck_ is pulled out of Lucas and he feels a strong pump in his cock, leaking precome onto Eliott’s tongue. His breath starts singing in and out of his mouth and he shoves his hand down into Eliott’s hair; shaking on his elbow.

Eliott aims to destroy him completely, and envelops the head of his dick loosely in his glistening lips, sliding his tongue around all the curves of it, and then inches down over him, finally, finally engulfing him in his moist mouth; warm like the sun through a window in May. Lucas almost sits up involuntarily from the pleasure driven spasm that runs through him. All he can do when Eliott repeats it; sliding his lips up and down, his tongue like a lazy tickling feather on his skin, is to try to support himself on his straining arms, eyes nailed on him; his executioner and resurrector.

He moans like he is in pain, _Oh god_ like a mantra. When Eliott swirls his tongue around the head of his cock and probes him, Lucas feels precome pearling into his mouth again and falls back on the bed, but struggles to come up again immediately; too greedy for the view he is presented with. He has never given himself up with such abandon; never taken so high in the hands of someone else before. The thought of how he has thought oral sex should feel like suddenly seems like a bad joke made at his expense; _this existed_? Did people know? Or was Eliott a fallen archangel of sex, showing Lucas heaven through his mouth?

The line between having and wanting Eliott is confusingly thin; the concepts intertwine because the more he has, the more he wants. There’s no telling anymore, where the desired begins and the claimed ends. For now, it is mostly Eliott claiming him, though; worshipping his cock so expertly, sliding in and out between his lips so good Lucas that wants to shout for him to stop but also keep going until he swallows him whole with all he has to give.

Eliott’s back shines dimly of sweat; his slender muscles stand out like the contours of a landscape. His right hand traces the contours of Lucas hipbone, drawing on it lightly with his fingertips. Lucas has to close his eyes to prolong the whole thing but subconsciously starts to flex the muscles in his hips and butt, meeting Eliott in his movements. Eliott feels his tendency and looks up at him, leaving his cock long enough to say “ _Vas-y_ ,” with low voice. Lucas can’t reply but clenches his muscles harder, fucking Eliott’s mouth, making an effort to not slam home deeply like his sensory input wants him to. He knows he’s done for within seconds. Eliott knowingly observes his state of urgency and reaches up and interlocks the fingers of his right hand with Lucas’ left to steady him. Lucas doesn’t want it to be over, but is shaken to his core by the need to come; the need to come with Eliott, for Eliott, in Eliott.

“ _J’eassaye de me retenir_ , _m_ -” he croaks and Eliott catches his gaze; sliding his tongue up the back of his dick.

“ _Ah ouais_?” he says and mouths at the head. “Don’t.” Then he takes Lucas back into his mouth, with the sole purpose of making him come, and Lucas finally gives in and falls back on the bed. He notices vaguely that there is a painting in the ceiling; it is a celestial starry night sky in oil, with a quote that he recognizes, written in white letters, but he is way, way too far gone in his ravaging pleasure to remember where from. Then Eliott takes him in all the way, deep into his throat and he almost lifts off the bed, feeling the pleasure build and build so deliciously his eyes squeeze shut. He untangles his hand from Eliott’s to warn him, but he only manages to rasp out “Eliott-“ before he anticipates him; grabs his wrist and plants his arm on the bed again, holding him in place firmly while he sinks his mouth down on his cock again, and again. Lucas curls in on himself; the contractions of his abdomen pulling him in a forceful wave twisting his body when he starts to come. His voice comes out strained and throaty, groaning “Ah, _putain,_ I’m coming“ clinging to Eliott’s arm and hair as his orgasm is shot into him and out of him at the same time, heaving his hips stutteringly toward him. Eliott’s mouth is velvet and doesn’t stop milking him until he’s whining from it.

Lucas falls back on the bed heavily enough to bounce on the mattress a couple of times. He feels Eliott swallow around him and the mere thought is so erotically charged he almost wants to go again. He gets up over Lucas and motions for him to move up the bed. It takes all Lucas’ remaining strength to squirm his way up to the pillow, where he flops down; slack and sweaty.

Eliott lowers his body down and aligns with him, kissing him leisurely. “Taste yourself,” he whispers against Lucas lips and strokes damp strands of hair from his forehead. “You taste good.”

Lucas pulls him in with a hand in the nape of his neck, not as much to taste himself as because he needs the affection.

Eliott leans his head in his hand and watches him carefully. Lucas, still in post-orgasmic breathless daze, intends to be verbal but all that comes out of him after a moment of recuperation is a croaking _Hi,_ and Eliott breaks into laughter.

“Wanna try that again?”

“Fuck, I’m useless. You made me see stars. Literally and figuratively speaking.”

Eliott hums and looks up at the ceiling. Lucas feels confusingly tender after his bulldozer climax and rolls into Eliott and throws one arm around his neck. “I never came-“ he starts, into Eliott chests.

“I’m pretty sure you did.” Eliott quips after a while when Lucas doesn’t continue. Lucas huffs a laugh into his skin and pulls back.

“I never came, “ he tries again, wondering if he should say it but all bets are off anyhow.

“With a guy,” Eliott helps tentatively.

“That’s not what I was going to say, but you’re not wrong. I never came so good, in my life.”

“Interesting coincidence.”

“What is?”

“Never mind.” Eliott brings him back against his chest with long arms around him, skimming his finger over his shoulder blade.

Lucas feels like he ate a spoonful of sand, but doesn’t want to leave his position; draped half across Eliott’s body. He plays absentmindedly with the sparse hair in the middle of his chest.

 “Do you like it?”

Lucas follows Eliott’s gaze upwards. “I do. It’s tranquillizing.”

“That’s why I hung it there. If I can’t sleep, I’ll just look up at the stars. It helps.”

“It’s like a skylight. I always wanted one of those,” Lucas says. The previous hyperventilation makes itself known again, his throat is parched and he heaves a cough. “Fuck, I need water.”

“I got you,” says Eliott and gets up. “I need a cigarette, anyway.”

“I need ten.” Eliott laughs and disappears into the kitchen. He returns with a glass and fetches the tobacco. Lucas observes Eliott as he puts a cigarette in his mouth and tries not to smile smugly; his lips are still red from friction. “Why do you have your bed in here?” he asks, as Eliott sits down on it, next to him.

Eliott takes some time, producing two perfect smoke rings, before he answers.

“I don’t know…I don’t like sleeping in there,” he nods toward what should be the intended bedroom. “It makes me feel alone.”

Lucas puts his fingers to Eliott’s spine, tracing them up the rounded projections of his vertebrae.

“Are you afraid of the dark?”

 Eliott gives the cigarette to Lucas and lies down alongside him. “Depends.”

Lucas smokes and takes a moment to watch Eliott; stretched out, shirtless. He rubs his fingers over his lips, deep in thought before he feels Lucas eyes on him. Lucas feels exposed so he busies himself with stubbing out the cigarette. Eliott watches him, as he comes back to the bed. He opens his arm for him, like it’s no big deal, and Lucas curls into his body without a word. He melts into his naked torso, finding a perfect cradle in the hollow between his shoulder and chest. Eliott’s hand comes up and rests on his neck.

“You can fall asleep if you want to. It’s fine,” he says and plants a kiss in his hair.

 

Wednesday February 20. 09:29

_La résidence - l’École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris (Eliott’s apartment)_

// late

Lucas awakes by a moving presence and dry heat pressed against his back. The setting is unfamiliar until he feels lips on his shoulder and a hand over his ribs. Yesterday injects itself into his consciousness by increasing dose. He is baffled and stays shoved down in the pillow; gazing around the room until Eliott shifts behind him and stretches with a grunt. _How the fuck_ , but he knows exactly how, in explicit detail.

“ _Bonjour_ ,” Eliott says and returns to the frame of Lucas back. His voice is like molten honey in his neck. Lucas hand comes up, searching Eliott’s head behind him.

“ _Bonjour_.” They lean into each other’s slow revival. Eliott moves in on his neck, putting his lips to it.

“ _T’as bien dormi_?” he whispers.

“ _Ouai_. Waking up good, too.”  The walls are striped by bleak rays of light that have nestled their way through February and the cracks between the white window blinds. It is dusky enough for it to be a dream, but the slow appreciation from behind stands out as increasingly real. “ _Et toi_?”

“Like a prince.”

Lucas pulls Eliott’s head in closer and they are so warm albeit almost naked; he vaguely remembers discarding jeans on the floor in pitch darkness. He wiggles around and any remaining inquiries regarding _How the fuck_ are cancelled indefinitely as he is slammed by Eliott tousled, sleepy exquisiteness the instant he lays eyes on him.

“Hi.”

Eliott smiles; the delicate surrounding creases around his eyes is accentuates it. “Hi.” He has a few hairs stuck in his eye lashes which flutters when he blinks. Lucas reaches up to smooth them away and Eliott comes closer, sliding his hand around his back, down to his butt. Once more, Lucas is struck by Eliott’s free expression of need and how he just knows; like he never hesitated. He pulls Lucas into him with a pulping grip.

“Come here,” he mutters and tugs at Lucas. He rolls on top of him and is greeted by Eliott’s hard on, crowding his underwear in an obscene angular stretch. It’s unrepentant and shocking; yet Lucas instinctively rolls his hips into it; drilling his dick into Eliott’s groin. The awakening turns hurried. Eliott runs his hands in under his boxers and grabs his butt cheeks, hissing _Apple butt_ in Lucas mouth, and pulls him into him in a slow pulsing movement witch feels like a prelude to fucking with striking resemblance. Eliott shifts one leg slightly which lets Lucas thrust up into him, under him; Lucas thinks oh, god and lets control sweetly slip away.

A phone rings and Eliott shuffles around and reaches out of the bed. He hangs his head and laughs. “Any idea what time it is?”

“Non.”

“9:45.”

“You’re kidding me?”

“No,” Eliott says and shows him the display of his phone. They stare at each other in disbelief. It makes a lot of sense, though. It is the first time in over 12 hours that Lucas thinks about school and that probably never happened before.

With a few lingering stares at the bed and what could have been, they abandon it.

“I don’t even have the right things,” Lucas grumbles. “If I go home first, I won’t be there until lunch.” He holds up his t-shirt in front of him and squeezes his lips together at the sight of Eliott’s presence smudged in an arch over it.

Eliott tilts his head and squints. “You must have spilled something.” He nods against the drawers in the far end of the living room. “Just take something from me.”

“It’s not gonna fit.”

“You’ll just have to make do. What did they want us to wear today? Full costume.” He throws a Montague Boys shirt and shorts to Lucas. “Be warned, it’s not washed.”

Lucas starts jumping into his jeans, hair falling everywhere and balance seemingly nowhere. Eliott watches him struggle to adjust himself into the denim, grimacing and pushing at his dick. He moves over to him swiftly. “You’ve got a problem there?”

Lucas nods. “Big problem. Can you help?”

Eliott shoves his hand down into his pants and rubs it firmly over his dick.

“Eliott; that’s not helping, like at all.”

“It’s a special kind of help.”

Lucas’ desire spreads like wildfire after a traitorous spark to dry grass and he pulls Eliott down by the neck. “I see that. What if we fuck classes today, all day.”

Eliott gives a smug raise of his eyebrows that increases Lucas’ proclivity. “I wish. But we can’t. It’s rehearsal; not class. And we’re already an hour and a half late.”

“It’s gonna be even more unless you remove your hand from my pants. Also, I don’t think late covers it, dead is more like it. Eliott slides his hand around, inside his boxers and prods his fingers into his glutes. With a last deep, brief kiss he turns away and proceeds to sort himself out.


	10. Grand Allegro 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "People are trapped in history, and history is trapped in them."
> 
> James Baldwin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I do have knowledge and experience of ballet and being a student at a classical dance school, some things have been altered to a less realistic respresentation for the purpose of creating an appealing story.
> 
> Note that Lucas' thoughts, chat conversation and various French phrases and words are written in italics. I realize it may cause confusion, but I hope it won't. Don't hesitate to ask me if questions arise ♥️
> 
> This is part of a multichapter work that will update weekly. Until the end of time. Bisous (especially to my muses in SUF). Kudos and Komments are highly appreciated ♥️ 
> 
> Written with utmost respect for the creators and characters of the original work.

 

Wednesday February 20. 10.05

 _l’École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris_ // romantic outlaws

Eliott knows a short-cut to the studios and they jump over a fence and crouch under another and stumble out of the changing room an admirable seventeen minutes later. “Ready?” says Eliott and pulls his leg warmers up over his knees. They slow down approaching the studio, hearing the piano from inside. He curses and sighs, slightly out of breath.

“No. But, go ahead,” Lucas says.

Eliott puts his hand on the door but stalls. “It’ll be ok. He flicks his fingers over the back of Lucas hand.

“I’ll give you your clothes back tomorrow,“ he says into the studio and a few turning heads when Eliott pushes the door open. He flashes a strained smile to Lucas at the misadventure.

“ _Monsieur Lallemant, Monsieur Demaury;_ welcome. How nice of you to make an appearance.” Auguste gestures for them to drop their belongings.

Lucas has his heart in his throat from the people watching; noticeably surprised by their entrance. _As you were, carry the fuck on_. Elliot saunters in, much less concerned. Lucas lags behind, organizing his things a little longer than necessary for the spotlight effect to wear off. He is amazed and a little uneasy with how unproblematic Eliott is, but doesn’t hold on to it. Rehearsal demands his full attention, especially after the late entrée. 

“Lucas, there’s no time to repeat what you have missed. We’ll have to book extra hours,” Auguste says. Lucas can tell; he thinks he’s utterly hopeless. Eliott watches the interaction with interest, waiting for his reprimand but it fails to ensue. All Auguste says is, “You two; watch and listen before you dance,” with two fingers sweeping from them and to the barre. They warm up in usual fashion but the world has permanently shifted, and nobody knows.

*

When it wraps up, Auguste is not done. “A word, please. You, others; go shower.”

Eliott leaves a conversation with Lucille and joins Matthieu and Lucas, standing in front of Auguste awaiting their sentence. “I expect more from you, and you, and you,” Auguste continues and points at them in order. “Be on time,” he directs to Matthieu who takes his queue; nods and hurries off. It’s unspoken but evident that more is coming in Eliott’s and Lucas’ direction but Auguste waits until the door closes after Matthieu, in silence. He looks at his watch. “Two hours late,” he says and eyes them. “And why are you wearing the wrong clothes?” He pulls at Lucas shoulder to confirm the missing details on the back. He looks to Eliott, who starts to say something but is interrupted. “Never mind, by the way; I don’t want to know,” he says, although he looks suspiciously like he already does. “I have a few rules; different than the golden standard, mind you. One, be on time. Two, don’t show up in Romeo’s clothes unless you’re Romeo. Three, if you fail at both, make sure it doesn’t happen again. He turns his back to them and picks up his notebook. “And four; at least try and come up with _one_ pitiful explanation, don’t just stand there looking mortified.”

The room falls silent after Auguste leaves it in haste. Lucas returns to his bag but doesn’t have time to pick it up before Eliott is on him and almost trips him over. He puts a hand on his jaw and kisses him quickly. “What are you doing,” Lucas hisses and scans the room, but in the same breath he wants to return the kiss.

“There’s no one here.” Eliott laughs a little at his discomfort. “Wasn’t too bad,” he says, about Auguste’s lecture.

“Yes it was. It wasn’t good, at all.”

“Let me rephrase, then; it could have been worse.”

“I still have exams and auditions, you know. It’s not gonna help if he hates me.”

Eliott stays quiet and collects his things. What is he to say, really. Lucas’ phone buzzes from Chloé’s continuous attempts at communication. A call means urgent, which means pissed; he doesn’t even need to call back to be confident in that conclusion. “I have to go deal with her,” he says. Eliott nods after a glance at his display.

“Do that.” He slings his bag over his shoulder, gives Lucas another chaste kiss and ruffles his hair. “Bye.”

 

Wednesday February 20. 17.11

 _l’École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris_ // foreboding

He thought he would look different but the mirror shows him the same clueless face it always does. Same naivety and cynicism; his eyes are baby blue but they hide something. That has never been truer than now. He undressed with care, folding Eliott’s clothes into neat squares. Tucking them into his bag, as if they weren’t drenched in two days’ worth of dance-sweat, he plans to wash and return them in irreproachable condition as a thank you. His mind tails the notion of maybe getting him something more, something that he would like, but he flushes and abandons the idea. He traces his fingers over his lips, where glints of Eliott still remain. The person in underwear with a stupid smile looking back at him might be a little different than before.

The door to the changing room swings open and the voices of Matthieu and a guy that he still can’t remember the name of, after four years in the same class, enter so abruptly that he has to piece their words together afterwards. “Demaury didn’t get shit, I’m sure,” Matthieu says and throws his bag on the floor. “The guy could miss a whole day and still be escorted to class on David’s back; everyone’d be ready, like. Mouths open.”

His unnamed friend snickers. “Teacher’s pet, literally. Did you hear?“

“That he had a previous owner? _Ouai_.” The nameless breaks into Jafar-like laughter. It’s the most savage thing he ever heard, apparently. They notice Lucas, quietens and says hi.

Lucas steps out of his underwear, not particularly looking forward to putting on the same t-shirt he wore last night for dinner, but the other option is nudity so it has to serve. After showering, he discovers that he is a disgusting deviant when he decides to turn the shirt inside out instead of trying to clean Eliott off of it. It could have been him, vocalizing the same envy as the nameless and Matthieu, no more than a couple of weeks ago. If Eliott would try to prove them wrong, he’s in for a battle he can’t win, he thinks as he gets dressed.

 

Wednesday February 20. 19.53

 _Yann’s apartment_ // friends and foes

“ _Altruistic, humble, loyal, polite, home-loving_. _Voilà_. They saw me; perfect fit,” Basile recites from his phone.

“You left out _animal_ , actually,” Arthur points out.

“We are all animals, in this case. You’re actually a toad, if I’m not wrong.”

“Ha, you got me there.”

“I did, I did.”

“I read _The Wind in the Willows_ in the end of last year,” Yann shouts from the kitchen. “It’s a mess, honestly. No kid of today would ever get it.”

“That’s why we are providing the service of interpretation. Least we could do, for all the poor Parisian kids coming to the ballet,” Arthur calls back.

As circumstances have it, Basile, Arthur and Yann are all casted as three leads in the Wind in the Willows; mole, toad and badger in corresponding order. Lucas reclines with them, tired and carefree in Yann’s sofa.

“I’m the only one with any resemblance; _a gruff but benevolent soul_ ,” Yann reads from Basile’s phone. Lucas has not been informed as to which part he will have; the fuss is remarkably less present regarding the modern pieces than the classical ones and he doesn’t care if he ever finds out, at the moment.

“Fuck me, I almost forgot,” Arthur says and slaps his own thigh. “I found out some _sick shit_ about Eliott Demaury.” Lucas helps himself to the food that Yann places in front of them, the sudden introduction of his most recent lover to their talk a punch to his gut. He balances between attention and panic like a line dancer. “Did you hear?”

“I heard something,” says Basile. “But, who was it?”

“The artistic leader, dude.”

“Oh, tea!” Basile laughs and shovels food into his mouth.

“What? You’re speaking in riddles.” Lucas tries his best to transmit excitement rather than alarm.

Arthur turns to him and speaks with the pent delight of someone announcing the arrival of a new royal baby. “So. Eliott Demaury was fucking the artistic leader at SAB. Or artistic director, I don’t know what they call them there.”

“It wasn’t _fucking_ , dude, don’t be rude,” Basile remarks. “It was a love affair.”

“Whatever; he was doing it with him.”

 _Great._ But Arthur isn’t finished. “The guy is married, wife finds out, word spreads. Someone threatens to push charges on him. I’m guessing Eliott’s parents, or someone at the school. Anyway. The board shuts them up by moving him and giving him a role at the _Palais Garnier._ It was a bargain. That’s why he came here.”

 “Ready for the next art director.”

“Don’t even say it,” Arthur directs to Basile and grimaces.

The prospect of sharing his fresh, intimate development with Eliott sails out the window like an express ferry. Lucas speaks up, with growing frustration. “Wait, how do you know this?”

“Someone said. I can’t remember who they got it from, I think it was Lucille.”

Basile points at them with his fork. “It makes sense, though. He has the aura. The devil in a Sunday hat.”

“What the fuck kind of expression is that?” Arthur asks.

“It’s something my mom says about people who look appealing but shouldn’t be trusted. What, it doesn’t make sense?”

“It does, but it also sounds a lot like something a sixty year old woman would say.”

“I still don’t understand Romeo, how did he get that? Somebody must have owed somebody big time to make that happen,” Basile goes on. “Did he hypnotize you and make you hand it over?” he says to Lucas, who scoffs and avoids a response.

“No but I bet he manipulated someone,” says Arthur and shakes his head.

“How would she know?” Lucas asks.

“What? Lucille?” Arthur shrugs. “I guess they talk. Or they have something.”

“I bet he’s got a finger there. Or in her dad. No rest for the wicked,” Basile says and gains laughs from the others, but Lucas can only look at them as if he had seen an alien.

“Ugh, that’s enough,” Yann says. “I don’t want to have that image on my mind when I go to bed tonight.”

“He’s gonna get so much- get into so many people’s pants, just wait. I bet he’s already working through the ensemble.”

“You were going to say _pussy_ , weren’t you?” Arthur says and folds over with grunting laughter.

“Yes but obviously I can’t, so I changed it to _into people’s pants_ , because _evidemment_. Or dick, as the case may be,” Basile reasons. “What, am I the only one picking up on this with this guy? _Artistique et prétentieux_ , but it’s all posture.”

“You seem to have been giving this some thought,” says Yann.

“I have a good eye for mother fuckers,” Basile shrugs.

“It takes one to know one,” Arthur remarks and refills his plate.

Lucas finds a window in his dark train of thought; visualizing Eliott in New York. Imagining where he walks; where he dances; clear, cold winds and sun. Maybe he was free there, from the refugee inside his shadows, wounded by war. But the rail never ends and pulls Lucas along its tracks into razing jealousy until he can’t think straight. Seemingly, the others mistake Lucas silence for disinterest and he plays along, his only goal to finish his plate so he can leave. A message from Eliott lights up the display of his phone, far enough for inquiring eyes to take notice. It’s a photo of the ceiling which he spent some, but still far too few, blissful hours under less than twenty-four hours ago. “It’s less dark here tonight,” the text reads. There is a link to a Google book. _Poetry in translation_ is the title and all he has time to read before closing his phone again.

“Maybe you shouldn’t be so quick to believe it,” he says, more in defense of himself than of Eliott.

“Why would someone like, make it up, though?” Arthur says. “Word’s already out. Ask him, if you don’t believe me.”

“I don’t know him,” Lucas denies with a ring of truth that scares him. “Why are you looking at me?”

“No reason, but you talk to him, at least,” says Basile.

“No, I don’t.” Lucas scrapes up the last remaining food on his fork. “And, I don’t give a shit, so. Pathetic,” he adds for good measure.

*

He walks home, even though it’s almost five kilometers. The deserted streets are consoling, somehow; they appear gloomier than him and at least that’s something. It seems to him that there must be a glitch in the universe and a bizarre twist of fate causing him to hear about this; it was never supposed to happen. Some things are not supposed to be known, unless wished for or shared in confidence with a purpose. He feels like an intruder but can’t help the hunger to dig deeper and feed his tormentor; jealousy. “ _All posture_.” Telling his friends about his involvement with Eliott would have been trying enough as it was, but it seems a crude joke now.   _I also fell for it, les gars! I fell for it as recently as last night, hard, deep and real._ No, that won’t happen any time soon.

What gnaws the most is his ludicrous assumption that they were in this together. That it was a mutual new discovery. He feels like the gay version of a faithful Roman Catholic; caring about chastity before marriage but the idea of Eliott with another man is suffocating. And that’s what Eliott had said, wasn’t it? The memory evades him. He doesn’t know who said what but he does however know both that the pedestal that he seems to have put Eliott on, albeit unasked for, is crumbling to pieces and that he shouldn’t care as much about this as he does. But since when did he have the integrity to harbor conflicting emotions.  What else is he not getting? And, next in the line of questions, _who has a fucking affair with the artistic leader_? That sort of thing just doesn’t happen. Although, if there is someone who seems right for the role it is Eliott; everyone wants him. And Lucas hates that.

The memory of them, together in Eliott’s sheets, seems tainted but still cruelly awakes his pulse and his dick. It is the single hottest thing he ever lived.

 

Wednesday February 20. 23.10

 _The apartment_ // new york state of mind

The apartment smells just like it usually does and the interaction between that and video games has a long sought-after anxiety reducing effect. Mika, slightly confused by his insistence, reluctantly agrees to play with Lucas. He feels all alone on the inside and wants to be less so, on the outside.

“So, your nightly endeavors of recent got you this restless or is it something else?” Mika says, after ten minutes of them staring at the animations on the screen. _Right_ , of course he would ask. Lucas doesn’t reply for a good one or two minutes and almost thinks that Mika has forgotten he asked in the first place, when he adds, “Not to snoop.”

“But still, you do.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

Mika seems to consider his response. When Lucas glances over at him, he speaks up. “As your gay guru, I feel a heavy responsibility. Let me take my time.”

“It was you who started this; you don’t have to say anything.”

“You can take your time, too. You don’t have to have the answers to what you’re doing.” Mika kills Lucas on the screen and puts down the consol. “I’m happy for you, though.”

“Not sure you should be.” By Mika’s face Lucas gathers he hasn’t heard any incriminating gossip. He waves his puzzled face off, and says, “Never mind.”

“ _Bah_ , never mind you say. Your mother and I were worried.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“Not a text, even less a call, and your boy room empty.”

“Curiosity and worry is not the same thing; trust me, I know.”

“Either way. You can talk to me if you want to. I’ve heard it all and worse before, if that concerns you.”

Actually, that doesn’t concern Lucas. It would take a lot to shake Mika.

“Hey,” he says and stops him from leaving the room. “I just wanna know… what do you think about Eliott?”

Mika sits down on the divan again. “Er- nothing special, I guess. Barely know him. We’ve only met in class. Why?”

“You’re my friend, I just wanna know what your impression is.”

“First of all; I’m so honored we’re officially friends now. Second of all, I knew that’s where you’d been but I didn’t say; third of all, … He’s hot, obviously. Seems nice. A little quirky maybe. Uncomfortable with the attention.”

“Huh,” Lucas says. Well, he doesn’t know what he’d expected. He obviously agrees with everything with the addition of that Eliott is comfortable too, at times. So comfortable he almost melts in your hands.

“A bit,” Mika continues slowly, “out of place. Like he is not quite _here_ yet, maybe. You know? But that’s normal. He might still have a part of him left in New York.”

“Right,” Lucas says. But wrong; he wants that to be wrong.


	11. Grand Allegro 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Romeo & Juliet. Act 3, scene 2.**
> 
> Serpent heart hid with a flowering face.
> 
> He’s a beautiful tyrant and a fiendish angel
> 
> He’s a raven with the feathers of a dove
> 
> He’s a lamb who hunts like a wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for French to English translation.
> 
> While I do have knowledge and experience of ballet and being a student at a classical dance school, some things have been altered to a less realistic respresentation for the purpose of creating an appealing story.
> 
> Note that Lucas' thoughts, chat conversation and various French phrases and words are written in italics. I realize it may cause confusion, but I hope it won't. Don't hesitate to ask me if questions arise ♥️
> 
> This is part of a multichapter work that will update weekly. Until the end of time. Bisous (especially to my muses in SUF). Kudos and Komments are highly appreciated ♥️ 
> 
> Written with utmost respect for the creators and characters of the original work.

Thursday February 21. 09.47                             

 _l’École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris_ // good mourning

He accompanies Manon to school, content in her relative distance. She’s in a dedicated relationship with her phone and he has the equivalent liaison with quietness; if he had the choice he’d never say a word before 10 am. Especially not today. By the force of habit, she still pushes him into their café and orders them coffee without a word in his direction.

Forced to watch an hour and a half of lead rehearsal before his own practice, Lucas sits leaning against the wall in studio H. He feels like a prisoner awaiting conviction, by the amount of restless he is. Eliott arrives after him and his appearance is mesmeric. Unknowingly, he stirs a storm in Lucas by his mere presence and even more so by his walk, his arms’ pendular movements and his face; the sharp cheekbones and plump bow of his lips. Walking across the floor, he glances around and double-takes when his eyes land on Lucas; enough for him to want to get undressed and sacrifice his body or curl into fetal position, alternatively. Stuck in a loop of _what everything means_ , he can’t reciprocate Eliott’s lingering stare.

With trained gaze, he watches Eliott dance. His pirouettes are sharp; he flings his leg out to _à la seconde_ like it’s nothing. He has improved, or maybe it is just self-immolation to the culture of French schooling and that’s what appeals to Lucas. Eliott receives lengthy tutoring on how to lift his partner ergonomically and Lucille acts guinea-pig. He lifts, and lifts. It’s a special kind of agony to watch him focus, bend down and catch Lucille as she jumps into him, grabbing her by the waist and inside of the thigh and then press upward. She sails high above his head in a perfect arrangement of curved and straight lines but Auguste reproaches them for lack of technique. _Hold your center_ , he shouts repeatedly to Eliott. “And you,” he directs to Lucille, “You can’t expect him to lift you all the way from the floor. You jump; then he lifts.” He waves his hands in a circular motion above Eliott’s head. “Aim for his arms but imagine they are up here. Jump on his face, approximately,” Auguste concludes, making Eliott laugh.

That face, and Eliott’s challenging beauty makes Lucas feel thorny and twisted inside; it’s a familiarity that somehow became foreign, overnight.

“I was jumping,” Lucille shrugs.

“Jump better, then,” Auguste waves her off. Surely, Auguste is giving helpful advice, but all Lucas ruminates over is _why would Eliott tell a guinea-pig, about past love and loss_?

People start passing by in front of him, hurrying off to next class. Eliott winks at Lucas over Auguste’s shoulder, across the studio space. The thorny branches cover with budding roses, but he can’t think right now. He needs space.

 

Friday February 22. 19.02                                  

 _the apartment_ // make it stop, Manon

On Friday, he can’t put off Chloé any longer without risking a fate worse than death; at least that’s how he remembers her craze during their last break-up and he went AWOL trying to put distance between them. He tells her they should talk and invites her over for dinner. He had thought take-out but Manon convinces him to let her cook, on the condition that she gets to eat with them. “I don’t like dining alone on Fridays. It depresses me,” she said.

Always the woman with a plan, she takes the lead through the grocery store.

“I want meat,” Lucas says.

“No meat.”

“But, I need the protein.”

“Protein is not going to make you break up with Chloé,” Manon says across the freezer.

Lucas fingers the package of minced beef. “It might help?” He is wholeheartedly surprised that Manon hasn’t asked about his whereabouts on Tuesday night yet, but he counts his blessings at the moment and shuts up. No need to delve into that issue over vegan pasta bolognese. It has been three days since Tuesday; three days longer than any other three days and he is starting to itch. Christophe’s colorful description of Elliot, _Stallion of the dance_ , comes to mind when he sits and twirls pasta around his fork next to Chloé and he wishes he knew how to tame a wild horse. Manon entertains Chloé during dinner and he is glad for that. It gives him the time to try to mind-read Chloé and come up with a master plan on how to end their long overdue romance. He doesn’t accomplish either goal and kind of just sits there, shifting his gaze back and forth between the two of them while they talk, tennis audience style.

“I heard something,” Manon answers cautiously when Chloé asks them if _they have heard about Eliott Demaury and the thing that happened_.

“Ugh,” Chloé interrupts and puts a hand on her belly. “Fuck, I’ve got the worst cramps.”

 _Oh, good._ It markedly decreases expectation on him to perform sexually any time soon; Chloé never wants to fuck on her period.

 “What kind do you want? Manon rummages through their box with pharmaceuticals in a kitchen cabinet. “I’ve got a whole pharmacy, here.” She places an array of pain killers in front of Chloé.

“Doesn’t matter, thanks. So; is that all you heard, that he had an affair?” she continues expectantly.

 _Oh, not good._ Manon looks at Lucas and neither of them reply. She can read him like an open book and the current chapter is called _Make it stop, Manon_. But apparently, she is temporarily dyslexic because all she does is clear her throat.

Chloé picks up her phone. “That is _not_ all,” she says. “When Lucille told me, I told her to stop hanging out with him. I don’t think she listens.” She scrolls through her camera roll. “Full disclosure. They have an affair, Elliot and this man. Like, long time,” she emphasizes. “The guy, he wants to end it, because his wife finds out. Eliott raised hell and made sure the rest of the world found out too. Look.” Chloé puts the phone down on the table.

“What’s that?” asks Manon.

“It’s from Eliott’s Instagram. Some genius saved it, bless.” Lucas eyes are drawn to the display much like how you’d compulsively stare at the smoking wrecks of a car crash.

A man in underwear is standing by a window, smoking, with his back to the camera. He looks at least twice their age but definitely has a dancer’s physique. _Eliott, stop it,_ he says. _Stop what_ , Eliott’s voice comes through the speaker; it makes Lucas shift on his chair. The man holds up his hand to cover the lens but laughs. _I’m just documenting you for the afterworld;_ Eliott adds and pans the camera up and down over the man’s body. There’s another video immediately starting to play when the first finishes. Eliott, captured by the front camera, flops down on a bed and an outstretched arm. Lucas reluctantly notes that the man is beautiful and that Eliott appears to be naked. _You’re impossible, aren’t you_ , the older one laughs. _I’ve been called worse_ , Eliott quips and is subsequently attacked by his lover and they wrestle for domination. The camera flips around, out of Eliott’s hand and the screen goes dark, leaving the two to themselves.

Lucas rubs his face, unable to restrain himself. “Chloé, I don’t want to see this.” She doesn’t listen, though, and swipes on to screenshots of Eliott’s vindictive Instagram exhibition. There are photos of a man, an artistic leader; a collection that no student should have access to unless he took them himself. The caption reads _Tell her, you have been confused._

“It’s crazy,” Chloé remarks. And she is right, none of this seems sane.

“God, that’s awful. What happened then?” Manon asks and Lucas silently imposes death threats on her.

“I know, right? He lost his job at the school, there was a whole investigation.”

“No, I mean it’s awful for Eliott, too,” says Manon.

“Sure, but…” Chloé shrugs. “He effectively killed the career of someone he supposedly loved, by doing this,” she adds and holds up her phone, “and god knows what else.”

“Stop showing me that.” Lucas says with mounting anxiety. Chloé quietens and puts her phone away.

“Where does your righteousness come from?” she comments, mistaking his repulsion for morals, which is laughable. “You have to admit, it’s crazy. No person in their right mind does this.”

“Maybe so, but it’s probably worth it to take Eliott’s side into consideration, too,” Manon suggests. “Can’t have been easy, for him. And, I’m inclined to think that this guy was responsible for his own career.”

“Eliott was rewarded with a role at the _Palais Garnier_. Don’t you think that’s unfair?”

Lucas doesn’t know who he is more frustrated with; Chloé who insists on vomiting all over Eliott or Manon who defends him when he deserves a slap to the face and hours of furious reproach from Lucas. Or, _this guy_ , who he won’t learn the name of until the day he dies, if he can help it.

“It’s not like Eliott didn’t know what he was doing, just because he wasn’t legal.” Chloé turns to Lucas, “You’re not _legal_ ,” she goes on, with gestured citation marks. “You know what you’re doing, right?”

Well, that was an overstatement if he ever heard one. “It’s my birthday in two months,” he says as if it matters.

“Either way, I don’t care. It’s just juicy as fuck. And I’m not surprised, at all. I knew there was something off, about him.”

Lucas gets up and starts clearing the table. Where was the decorum of this world, when you needed it? He is hurt by Chloé, so wounded that he scratches the upcoming break up from his to-do list. He doesn’t even consider her, anymore. It’s not even her fault; not really.

Why is he subjected to this never ending trash-talk of the only one who ever felt real to him; but whose sojourn had been so brief it can’t ever sustain in this river of shit? Everyone seems to have sensed this coming on, somehow; recording Eliott on some frequency beyond Lucas’ range. It’s incomprehensible to him, how that is. All he has seen is the embodiment of art, in one single being. And his face, his shoulders, his hands; his hands handling roll-up paper; his hands handling Lucas. His record collection, his messy hair in the morning, his sudden boyish laughter in surprise, his intelligence like he already has more years than the rest of them together, his face in rapture, his body at Lucas mercy and his name on his tongue. Additionally, maybe a veiled, intriguing furtiveness. A faulty protection that Lucas had thought he was starting to see through; and what he saw was beautiful. But never would he have predicted this.

 

Friday February 22. 17:47                                  

 _the apartment_ // -

_Eliott: I need my clothes back. Costume wants to make adjustments._

 

Friday February 22. 22:18                                  

 _the apartment_ // -

_Eliott: Tell me, whatever it is you’re not telling me._

 

Saturday February 23. 22.31                              

 _The Bar_ // my chérie amour

It is Ingrid’s birthday. She’s intoxicated and _overwhelmed_ that so many came, she says, referring to August and the guest choreographer of The Wind in the Willows. The presence of her class mates impresses less; understandably so. Like they ever would have said no to going out drinking. Lucas sits squeezed in between Chloé and Arthur in uncomfortable clothes, wishing he could have worn sweats. He scrolls through his messages, one conversation burning with his nonexistent response. He can’t think of a single thing to say to Eliott, except for things he shouldn’t say. He didn’t ask for this.

The bar is industrially designed; straight lines, metal and concrete, dimmed bulbs as the only source of light. There is an unpopulated dance floor but the night is still young. Chloé sets down a beer in front of Lucas, saying _Santé, bébé_ and clinks her glass to it, when he spots Eliott. He enters, hands in pockets, wearing black slacks, a white t-shirt and black jacket. Lucas could fill a journal with his observations. Just behind Eliott, Lucille saunters in and his insides recoil on themselves and then explode in a black fire of jealousy. All the painful scenarios he was playing out in his mind, while tossing and turning in sweat-damp sheets the previous night, seem so cruelly well-adapted to reality.

Eliott is heartbreakingly beautiful and it kills him to see it. To know the wonderful that he is, is pure self-harm. Why did he ever subject himself to it? Lucas disconnects from the conversation around him and stares; he couldn’t stop himself if he tried. He knows those eyes, he knows those hands; Eliott has put them on him. They had shared each other, or so he had thought.

“Hate to say I told you so,” Basile hisses to Arthur and nods in the general direction of the couple that everyone already has noticed anyway. Lucas rubs the bridge of his nose, feeling a faint headache coming on. Arthur snickers but is largely uninterested. “ _Romeo et Juliette_ ,” someone states.

“Why are we talking about this?” Lucas asks but doesn’t really expect anyone to answer.

“Just observe how right I always am, give me some cred,” Basile says.

Lucas has absolutely no cred to spare, only an incipient, dull headache. When he massages his temple, Chloé asks him if he is not feeling well and puts a hand to his forehead. He tries to find Manon across the table to telepath his misery but she doesn’t pay attention to him. It doesn’t take long for Eliott to notice him, as he leans on the bar and waits for service. He scans Lucas’ company and turns away with an unsettling expression, like the bastard child of a smile and a grimace, on his face that Lucas can’t read. _Yeah, fuck you too_. But at least, he has his attention, now. While Lucas downs his beer and makes a staggering reappearance in conversation, Eliott lingers by the bar with Lucille and then pulls her out to the dance floor when a cheesy Steve Wonder song plays.

He wishes he could retch and spew his disgust to the group of people around him; for everyone to hear and reciprocate. It’s difficult to hate when you can’t feed the feeling together with someone. Instead, it starts feeding on you. Or if it’s jealousy; he isn’t sure but it hurts and is all-consuming. Eliott’s fingers to Lucille’s cheek dig a hole inside him and he starts to think he enjoys stabbing the shovel deeper when he looks at him over Lucille’s shoulder; her face turned towards his neck.

He knows full and well that he is a monster when he puts his arm around Chloé’s shoulder and lets her kiss him while he flicks his eyes over Eliott, but there is nothing for it. He’s getting revved up and a misdirected spark is all it would take to provoke an explosion.

 

*

 

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” Eliott says behind Lucas, when he’s finally turned his back to him, and he spins around on the spot when his brain identifies the speaker. He says nothing to Lucas’ clique, not even to Ingrid who watches their interaction with confusion. From Eliott’s appearance, declining doesn’t really occur as an option.  Before Lucas answers, he disappears out on the backside and a terrace that is not in use at this time of the year.

Eliott doesn’t say anything immediately when Lucas comes out. He sits on a fire ladder and rolls a cigarette methodically, ignoring his presence.

Lucas patience is wearing thin and he finally caves in and says “What’s going on?”

“With what?”

He’s actually not sure about that; and Eliott isn’t helping. Lucas puts his hands on his hips and watches the reflection of orange streetlights on the wet asphalt. “Why are you here with her?” If he weren’t so angry, he probably wouldn’t have been able to ask.

“Why not?” Eliott takes a deep drag on his cigarette and leans back on the fire exit ladder. He reeks of passive resentment. “You object?”

“Yeah. I do, actually.”

Eliott looks at him as if he is trying to solve a puzzle. “Wait,” he says then, “you’re upset with me? Really?” He shakes his head in disbelief and chuckles. “Last thing I heard from you, was that you were going to deal with your girlfriend. Your words,” he emphasizes and points at Lucas with the cigarette. “ _Après… tu as disparu, quoi_.” He flings his hands out, looking wildly annoyed despite his laughing, and spits on the ground.

Lucas is unprepared of the confrontation. Eliott is pensive and quiet, until he shakes his head and seems to resign. “I don’t know if you’re pretending or if you’re ignorant.”

“Excuse me?”

“It was not a coincidence, what you said last time. You remember that?”

“What're you- Can you speak in complete phrases, please?” Lucas says, struggling to not raise his voice.

Eliott pauses to stare him down and he quickly considers if he should be scared of him. “It was not a coincidence that it was good when we were together. You realize that, don’t you?” When Lucas falters, Eliott drops his eyes to his crotch and licks furious flames up his body. “Or, she makes you feel the way I did?”

“That’s not what I thought you meant, the other day. By _coincidence."_

Eliott looks at him bewilderedly. “I thought you meant that I was your first, too,” Lucas sputters, angrier than necessary to compensate for the ridiculous he feels.

Eliott doesn’t get it, and Lucas can’t blame him. “Does it matter?” he says after a beat.

“Don’t worry, I know better now.” Silence stretches out while Eliott smokes and Lucas starts pacing back and forth in front of him.

“If you really care about that, I think you should ask yourself why,” Eliott finally says.

“Don’t analyze me,” Lucas says and raises a warning finger.

Eliott scoffs and bites his lips with palpable frustration brewing. “You still have a phone, right? Then, you know that this is not on me; it’s on you.”

“Bullshit-” Lucas says, incredulous to how Eliott seems to know how to wedge nails in where it hurts the most.

“You don’t love yourself,” he interrupts.

“Who the fuck loves themselves, Eliott? Do you?” Lucas barks, feeling control slip. He turns away; trying to regain composure. He hates this but almost doesn’t want the air to calm down, because he’s scared of what he’ll find at the other side of this altercation.  “What do you have with her?” he says, and nods toward the bar, since long violating the boundaries of what he has the right to know.

“What? With who? Lucille? _Bah, rien,_ Lucas _,_ ” Eliott says with scorn; his voice dripping of sugary feigned innocence. He gets up, walks up to Lucas and crowds him into the wall. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about. Are you worried? That I’m fucking her? Hm?” Lucas can’t look up but Eliott provokes him. He exhales smoke furiously and removes himself from Lucas, but keeps him drilled into the wall with armed eyes.

Jealousy claws at Lucas insides with an intensity that physically hurts. The feeling of something being wrong; a misunderstanding; a mistake that has happened in the grand scheme of things renders him anxious, like a plumber looking for a leakage in a house that slowly fills with water. _There is a fault, somewhere, causing this; it’s not supposed to be this way._ Or maybe he was fooling himself before; maybe they were meant to claw each other’s eyes out all along. “I shouldn’t be surprised. This is how you live. I hope you sleep well at night, knowing that you fucked your way to the top,” he spits out when he regains his voice. Eliott’s eyes come together in a squint and he frowns, lost at the sudden change of direction. Lucas is increasingly infuriated by his own words. The anger starts to take physical form and he distances himself from Eliott for safety. “You know what it cost me? And then you came after me; brought me to your bed. I know why you transferred.”

Eliott stands, heart-shot and frowning; all anger is gone from his face. Lucas wants it back immediately instead of the expression he wears now, because it is hurt that duplicates. “You don’t know anything,” Eliott says. He starts for the door but spins around and comes back. “Do you know what your problem is?”

“No, but I have a feeling you’ll tell me.”

“You’re a hypocrite.”

“Are you sure you wanna call me that?” Lucas retorts and steps up close to Eliott, hating the blame game but that’s all that they have left. “Let’s ask _Juliet_ ,” he continues with poorly camouflaged contempt. “She knows what you did Tuesday? She knows how much you loved it?”

It’s cold, and their breaths mingle in the air.

“ _Va te faire enculer_ , Lucas,” Eliott says calmly. He flips the cigarette to the ground, turns around and leaves.

 

Sunday 24 February. 00.22                                

 _The Bar_ // escape

Arthur comes out some twenty minutes later. Lucas doesn’t notice until he stands next to him. He claims he knew something bad was happening, although Lucas has a hard time believing it. “Contrary to popular belief, I’m not blind,” Arthur says. “I’ve had the feeling that there is something going on between the two of you, had no idea what but-“ He quietens and watches Lucas, who can’t even fake nonchalance but hangs his head as far as it goes between his shoulders. “And now, you’re sitting here like this.” Arthur sits down and Lucas knows what he wants to ask, so he nods before he has the chance to.  “I didn’t think it was… that,” he continues. “But, after we had dinner I kind of started to wonder. You were weird.”

Lucas rubs his eyes until they hurt. “I can’t go back inside, I can’t. But I can’t run away again, it’s starting to hurt my pride.”

“I don’t think you should go in there right now,” Arthur says and Lucas tries not to think about what he might mean by that. “When Carla dumped me, the only thing that helped was not being around her. So let’s do something else.”

“I still have my stuff in there. And also; Chloé, I guess.”

“I’ll tell her you weren’t feeling well. You puked everywhere; it was a mess; you’re not allowed back in by the staff,” Arthur offers.

“Calm down.”

“Meet me up front, I’ll get your things. I hate it here anyway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation
> 
> "Aprés, tu as disparu, quoi" is best translated as "Then, you disappeared" 
> 
> "Va te faire enculer" = "Go fuck yourself" or "Fuck you"


	12. Grand Allegro 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dear reader,  
> if reading descriptions of heterosexual sex hurts your eyes, please wear shades.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My endless gratitude to my Argentinian beauty and beta, Roki. You're a gem ♥️
> 
> While I do have knowledge and experience of ballet and being a student at a classical dance school, some circumstances have been altered to a less realistic respresentation for the purpose of creating an appealing story.
> 
> Note that Lucas' thoughts, chat conversation and various French words and phrases are written in italics. I realize it may cause confusion, but I hope it won't. Don't hesitate to ask me if questions arise ♥️
> 
> This is part of a multichapter work that will update weekly. Until the end of time. Bisous (especially to my muses in SUF). Kudos and Komments are highly appreciated ♥️ 
> 
> Written with utmost respect for the creators and characters of the original work.

  

Monday February 25. 22.05                               

 _The apartment_ // entre les deux

Lucas learns that what hurts the most is not the absence of something, or someone as the case may be, that you desire; what kills is the contrast between what was and what isn’t, anymore. It’s within that unbridgeable gap that you get lost. He cancels the Monday performance with a dead body, dead soul and dead phone. Sleep is a dancing devil and when it finally claims him, well after midday, it throws him around restlessly until ten in the evening. When he comes to, he is sweaty and disoriented. Recent events nail him to his bed until his breath is shallow and only his growling stomach reminds him that he’s still alive. Stumbling, he gets up and puts on shorts and a t-shirt.

The apartment is dark; only the lights of passing cars light up the living room every now and then. He goes to search out his flat mates and food, optimally both, but none is to be found. He returns to the living room and looks around mindlessly. Where is everyone when you just wish they were there doing everyday things and making everyday conversation; reminders of the passing of time when it feels like it indeed has stopped.

Manon’s door is closed which means she’s home and he knocks carefully, twice. “Manon?” he tries. He gets a muffled _Oui_ after a while. He opens the door and peeks in; his vision adapting to the darkness of her room gradually. She’s on her bed, not looking at him.

“ _Ça va_?” he says and enters. She doesn’t reply but breathes with the unmistakable tremble of someone who is crying but tries to remain composed. He wonders if he should leave her alone, but opts against it and walks up to her. Her tear-wet face emerges in the shadows. He contemplates what possibly could be up and wordlessly crawls into her bed. She still doesn’t say anything but gratefully molds into his shoulders when he offers it to cry on.

He hugs her slender shoulders and hushes her when she heaves against him, feeling her subconsciously using his t-shirt as a tissue for her running eyes and nose. _Something like this could be so easy._

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I love him. But it’s over,” she mumbles. Well, he couldn’t say it better himself.

She is wonderfully delicate against his chest; like a baby bird. If he could just understand why it was never enough of a feeling. Eliott’s steady, broad shoulders and the press of his body roll in over him. His moles; scattered like dark cinnamon on cream and his mouth; the way he looks like a child when he’s excited but a sinner without remorse when he’s on top of him. Moaning for Lucas, like he was the only one that mattered. His wit and wilderness that had felt like it could be Lucas’ haven and the refuge of Eliott’s apartment, an unrepeatable moment in time. The more he clings to the memory, the vaguer its contours become, evading his desperately clawing hands. It’s all he has left of him.

Manon is a blubbering mess but calms down bit by bit. He caresses her arm and waits for the continuation of her tragedy.

“Thank you, Lucas,” she says quietly. “I wish I could be with someone like you. You’re perfect.”

“Oh là là. You’re worse off than I thought.”

Manon laughs and dries her eyes, pushing herself up to look at him. “No, I’m serious. You are so much better than you know.”

“Eliott holds a different opinion.”

“He’s an idiot, then.”

“No, he’s not.”

Manon knows he has messed something up but doesn’t push. She caresses a few stray strands of hair from his forehead and leaves her hand on his cheek, and suddenly there’s an inexplicable charge. She is there, in his arms, with a foreign look in her eyes. When she kisses him he lets it happen, despite initially twitching in surprise. It feels off but at least it’s palpable; she’s a human among ghosts.

When she pushes her hand under his t-shirt and grazes her nails over his stomach, he responds to her kiss and pulls her closer. It becomes desperate and instrumental at once. She climbs on top of him and puts her hand in his shorts, finds his dick and strokes it; she doesn’t mind that he’s half hard.

If everything could go back to the habitual he would be willing to kill for it. He misses the common dullness which he could just walk in and breathe in; no heart and no depression. He wants it back, the unexceptional but familiar; anything but this godless ocean. But there is no going back; Eliott has pulled open the curtains to the sky, stars and all, and left him broken and lovesick on his open sea.

Manon slips her panties off in one swift movement and lets him enter her, hard and fast; a drive fueled by destruction but neither of them care. It feels good to be whole and wanted and to have that milking warmth around him.

“It’s alright if you think about him,” she whispers into his mouth.

But Eliott doesn’t need an invitation. The possessive doesn’t excuse itself. Her words send him into despair; he puts his hands on her waist and pulls her down on him over and over. She’s so small that he has to grab her hard; the lack of counterweight and muscle makes him feel a violent frustration, like he could float away while chasing the fill of the void in his chest. Eliott’s face is on his corneas and it makes his eyes burn and tear. He pulses above him with devil eyes; a tender trap. Through it, he sees Manon’s doll like face and hears her moan when he thrusts into her. She puts a hand on herself and brings herself to climax and he rolls with the contracting waves. He sits up and grinds into her, shooting with a sobbing groan and they sway unsteadily in her bed, clutching each other.

When it’s over, Lucas lies with an arm draped over his eyes and Manon sits at the foot of the bed with her back to him. He listens to the analog alarm clock tick.

“Fuck. We shouldn’t have done that,” he says from underneath his arm.

“It was my fault.”

“I was there too. I could’ve said no.”

Manon rubs her hands over her face. “Was never your strong suit, though, was it?”

“Ha! Funny.”

She sighs and puts her hands back over her face. Lucas adjusts his shorts and sits up on the bed, next to her.

“Hey,” he says when she doesn’t uncover her face.

“I just wanted to feel something else,” she says. She looks so defeated that Lucas puts a hesitant hand on her shoulder; like he wasn’t just inside of her. He gives it a pat before leaning his elbows on his knees and inspects the floor tiles.

“I originally came in here to ask if you want to order food. I didn’t have dinner.”

“Me neither.”

“I’ll get my phone.” Lucas leaves for the kitchen, having to pause and close his eyes for a second at the _what the fuck did you do_ and new improved self-contempt banging around inside his head, before he pushes it away with some effort. His phone is still dead and it feels like the rest of the outside world very well could be too. He opens his conversation with Eliott for the 347th time since texting him. He hasn’t even read it.

Manon comes after him, wearing an over-sized zipped hoodie.

“UberEats?” he suggests. She nods and sits down by the kitchen table; her eyes still red and shiny. Lucas puts his phone away. “Manon. Are you going to be okay? I know we fucked up, but… still.” He is not feeling particularly great about it either but it seems safest if only one of them freaks out at a time. On his end, nothing can get much worse anyway and he suspects the same goes for her.

“It’s not that.” She pulls the hoodie up over her hair. “It’s Charles. Everything just slides through my fingers. Him; the dance. Everything. I don’t have anything left.” She cries, hugging his midsection, and Lucas tries to comfort her. He doesn’t have much consolation to offer; he is more inclined to agree. He already knows - that’s the way things seem to be going, it’s cruel and random like stray raindrops descending on a window.

“You still have friends,” he offers.

Manon rolls her eyes. “I’m not handling that too well either, at the moment.”

“Just- let’s forget it ever happened.”

“I’m with you there.”

Lucas eyes the kitchen cabinets. “You know the best way to forget something? Well, the only way I know, in fact.”

“Alcohol.”

“Let’s see what we’ve got.”

*

They eat Indian food sitting on the living room floor; crudely shuffling in from their plates on the round table. Manon develops on her misery after finishing her food. “Charles cheated on me,”

“No way.”

“Way. I’d forgive him if he would want me to, but he doesn’t.”

“Would you, really?”

She pours herself wine and nods. “Everybody fucks up. And love is the same; it’s imperfect just like people are. If you want love, you have to deal with the person that comes attached to it; for better or for worse.”

“I guess.” Lucas refills his own glass and lies down on the carpet. The ceiling is so plain and suffocating; an overcast sky with no stars in sight. “I’m not straight,” he says.

“Wow, you realized just now?”

He makes a face at her sarcasm. “Well, I can’t take full credit; it was team work,” he adds and nods towards her bedroom.

“Aww! See, it was for a good cause after all.”

“You’re right. We’re geniuses. And you should start a resource center for people like me.”

“Mmm. I’ve got my hands full as it is, thank you.” She sits quiet and looks at him with the x-ray vision that always makes him feel so figuratively naked he wants to cover up like a timid maiden. “Lucas. I can speak plain with you, yeah?”

He shrugs. “You’re cheating yourself by not being with him,” she says then.

Lucas shakes his head and wonders where to start. “It’s not like that, anymore.”

“Like what?”

“With Eliott. We fought, it was horrible. For a moment I thought he was going to kick my ass; or me his.”

“Oh, god.”

“You don’t know what I said to him,” Lucas continues with growing dishonor. “I went after him about everything; Lucille, New York - that person he was with there. Everything.” Recapping the events of the previous night verbally to someone puts new light to his heinousness. “He hates me, now.”

“Does he know that you want to be with him?”

Lucas barely told himself, yet. “I don’t know; I guess. Or not. I don’t know.”

“Clearly, you don’t. And, what about you?” Manon says and watches him with the always-kind deer eyes; patiently waiting for what is so hard to articulate. But when he starts, the flood gates open.

“I’m in love with him. Fuck, it’s- I’ve never, _ever_ , … We were together on Tuesday and it was- I don’t even have words for it.” He interrupts himself and pushes his hand through his hair in frustration over his expressive inability.

“Yeah, I saw,” Manon nods.

“What do you mean _saw_?”

“Hello; I was at rehearsal on Wednesday. All of it, even.”

Lucas tries to remember if he really saw her there. “You’re perceptive,” he says.

“You’d have to be pretty unperceptive to not perceive that.”

“It’s because you saw us, before. On the terrace.”

“Maybe. But… you can’t see the way you look at each other. It’s almost hard to watch.” She sits up and gesticulates; “Your eyes, Lucas, they’re…I don’t know, it’s something rare.”

 “My eyes? Fuck, I knew you’d catch feelings for me,” he jokes to distract himself from uncomfortable self-awareness.

Manon throws a pillow at him. “Does he know about Chloé?” she asks.

“ _Bah oui_ , he knows. Why?” Manon sits quiet for so long that he starts to wonder if she said something and he didn’t pay attention; that happens, sometimes. “It doesn’t matter, anyway,” he continues. Everything is fucked up, so. For all I know, he’s with Juliet, now.”

“Yeah,” Manon says and he gathers she knows a little something about that.

“I tried so hard to not feel it, but it was still there. All the time. It doesn’t matter what I do, none of it matters when we … I can’t even think about him, without-“ Lucas sets off, rambling. “I’m defenseless.”

“Maybe that’s why you are so upset. You never didn’t have a choice, but to love, before.”

“I liked having a choice,” he grumbles. “So what am I to do, if I don’t have a choice? Should be simple, following your logic.”

“Talk to him,” says Manon. “Try, at least.”

“And say what? _I tried not to be in love with you_? Yeah, he’ll be charmed.”

“No, but... Maybe, _I am in love with you_ , instead?”

“I can’t say that,” Lucas says with conviction.

“You can; you should, even. Listen to me. I’m better than you at this.”

“And, what if he doesn’t-” Lucas starts, but doesn’t need to finish.

“Then, you bleed.”


	13. Grand Allegro 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _< < I fell in love with you the way you fall asleep: slow, and then all at once. >>_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A friend of mine made a fantastic edit for Grand allegro ☺ I'll post a link to it together with the next chapter. It's a composition of music, photos and videos that all served as sources of inspiration. Anjana, je t'aime.**
> 
> Disclaimer: None of the images in use are mine. They are copyrighted and should not be spread outside of this forum.
> 
> **Thanks to each and every one of you reading this story. I'm really touched by your comments.**
> 
> \-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> My endless gratitude to my Argentinian beauty and beta, Roki. You're a gem ♥️
> 
> While I do have knowledge and experience of ballet and being a student at a classical dance school, some things have been altered to a less realistic respresentation for the purpose of creating an appealing story.
> 
> Note that Lucas' thoughts, chat conversation and various French phrases and words are written in italics. I realize it may cause confusion, but I hope it won't. Don't hesitate to ask me if questions arise ♥️
> 
> This is part of a multichapter work that will update weekly. Until the end of time. Bisous (especially to my muses in SUF). Kudos and Komments are highly appreciated ♥️ 
> 
> Written with utmost respect for the creators and characters of the original work.

Tuesday February 26. 14.39                              

l’École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris // the lost boys

The corridors are long and nearly empty. He’s the only one there except for the cleaning staff, expeditiously emptying trash cans and mopping floors while classes keep the students clear of the hallways. There’s no trace of anyone.

“ _Monsieur_ ; don’t walk there, please” one lady says and points to the floor in front of Lucas with the shaft of her mop. “I just scrubbed it.”

“I look at the schedules,” Lucas points at the wall in front of him filled with announcements, a big calendar and class schedules for the spring semester.

“I just scrubbed the floor. You’ll have to wait.”

Lucas groans and looks around. “Can’t you give it to me then? It’s just there. I need to know when the leads rehearse today-“ he explains but his cleaning staff nemesis has already turned her back and started walking away, pushing the bucket of gray water on wheels in front of her. He curses, toes off his shoes and treads carefully across the floor. Wet socks always remind him of childhood, misjudging the depth of puddles to be jumped in or how big splash one could create even with a small body, ending up trotting around in squishy pools for shoes all day.

There is no trace of Eliott. Not in class, not in the cafeteria, not in the changing room. Growing unexpectedly but increasingly worried, he almost followed the impulse to ask the cleaning lady if she has seen him. Lucas decides to wait him out; he has to show up for lead rehearsal. With a smashing hour and a half to kill until then; he takes post outside the studio. The always neglected theoretical subjects could benefit from the interim; he opens the course book in English literature and reads.

“Are you feeling better today?” Auguste interrupts him as he is improving himself on the _Early years of Oscar Wilde_.

“ _Oui_ ,” Lucas says and prays he won’t inquire further. Auguste nods and jingles with his keys, trying to open the door to the studio while balancing a pile of binders on his arm.

Offering his assistance, Lucas takes the keys from him, clearing his throat. “Have you seen Eliott today?”

“No, not one glimpse. Maybe he is sick, too,” he says with a pointed look. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, then?” He leaves Lucas by the door and walks into the studio, but spins around. “I swear to god, it is always something with you; either one of you or both. Have you started a rotation of absence now; working in team? _‘You take Monday, and I take Tuesday. Naan, I had Tuesday last week’_ ,” Auguste scoffs and proceeds into the studio, punching the light switch with more force than necessary. “Maybe I shouldn’t have casted you as Mercutio.”

 _No, you should have casted me as Romeo, idiot_. “I’m sorry. I’ll better myself.”

Auguste sighs and rubs his eyes. “It’s alright, Lucas. I don’t know what’s going on between the two of you. But please, get a handle on it. I can’t juggle two male leads being absent in turns every day of the week, especially not for the shows.”

Lucas says nothing, backing out of the studio in part flight response, part obedience.

 

Tuesday February 26. 16.15

l’École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris // where is he

When one waits for time to pass, the hands of time lack resolution. There are a hundred faces passing, turning and talking but none is the so coveted. Lucas is bordering on exhaustion; only anxiety keeps the engine running in a stale, echoing loop.

At ten past four, Auguste peeks out and orders him to make better use of himself “ _than sitting there pretending to read._ ” Lucas can’t object; the trials and tribulations of Oscar Wilde are just passing words anyway. He tries to remember when and what he ate last as he packs up and gets into the studio, but it apparently it didn’t make a lasting impression, when- and whatever it was.

“ _Alors_ ; we are one Romeo short. Did you get hold of him?” Auguste calls across the studio.

“ _Non_ ,” Lucas says in chorus with the femininely pitched voice of an unknown companion. Looking around, searching for the source, he finds Lucille standing by the barre in a white tutu, stretching her arms behind her back.

“It doesn’t matter. Lucas you have your program to resume and Lucille; I’ll partner you.”

Lucille avoids him but radiates no hostility, only professionalism. And that, he can’t reciprocate.

“I didn’t eat,” he explains when Auguste chides him for losing his frame in the prolonged balances, but he only looks at him with an expression that says _not my problem_ , and it isn’t. They’re far beyond basic knowledge on how to take care of themselves; or so they should be. Auguste has no idea about how steep his slope is or how rapid his disconnection from discipline is growing. Lucas shuts up for the remainder of the class, even though he fucks up in multitude. He doesn’t need another requital of _Auguste’s alternative rules to the practice of ballet_. He needs something else, entirely, but it’s nowhere to be found. When Auguste leaves and Lucas, with limbs trembling from exertion, packs up his attire, he notices Lucille coming; the hard taps of her point shoes to the floor reveals her approach.

“Where is he?” she says. Lucas turns around and gives her a measuring look. It’s both sickening and soothing that she’s a girl. Sickening, because she is what he’ll never be and soothing, because it’s not enough; it’s not _it, it can’t be_.

“I don’t know,” he mumbles. _And rest assured, if I knew, you’d be the last one I’d tell._

Wednesday February 26. 19.14

Restaurant Jungle Arch // in love

It’s barely above ten degrees but heating lamps make it feel closer to twenty; acceptable for a February night.

“Give it to me, then,” Yann says and points at Lucas plate. “I’ll eat yours too, god damn. When do you _not_ feel like burger and fries?”

“Today, evidently.” Lucas hands over his plate.

“Well, speak for yourself. _Merci_.”

“I can keep a couple of fries, though,” Lucas says and snatches back a few of them.

Yann slaps his fingers. “Hey! Make up your mind, do you have an eating disorder or not, _putain_!”

“They were mine to begin with; I’ll do what I want with them!” Lucas retorts and grabs a handful of fries, dropping them next to his coffee cup.

Arthur places a pleading hand on each of them. “Hey, hey; no fighting, please. We came here to focus on my problems, no?”

“It doesn’t count as a problem, what you have,” Yann scoffs. “Just take the offer, man.”

“It’s not like I don’t know it’s a good offer. But I never really wanted to leave here,” Arthur pushes a piece of cucumber around on his plate. “I like it here; it’s here that doesn’t like me.”

“I hate to say it but I agree with Yann. You should do it. You’re the only one so far, who’s been headhunted. So who gives a shit what _Palais Garnier_ likes,” Lucas concludes. “Imagine: Madrid, summer time, Spanish women; maybe you’ll even find someone your own age for a change.”

Arthur scowls at Lucas’ reference to his recent affair with a ten year older woman. Offered a place in the _corps_ of the edgy, progressive Madrid Ballet company which almost exclusively performs neoclassical works, Arthur is at a crossroads. Lucas already knows he will shine, but that doesn’t seem to be the issue. Rather, it’s separation anxiety from a long time partner, the Paris ballet - which by no means deserves the sentiments - that holds him back. Yann gets up and disappears into the restaurant and Arthur deserts the topic of conversation quickly, squinting at Lucas.

“How are things?”

“Things?” Lucas is too tired to second-guess.

“ _Things_!” says Arthur with emphasis. Then he gives up and sighs; “with Eliott and you. How are things going? Where is he?”

Lucas looks around gingerly before answering. “There is no _Eliott and I_ ; I don’t know where he is- fucking gone, I guess. That’s how it’s going.”

“Is it because of all the talk, or because he’s pissed with you?” When Lucas looks around again, Arthur slaps him on the arm. “It’s only Yann, you know.”

“ _Arrête_! I know, still! What _talk_ are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the talk about him, Elliot, and his… past,” says Arthur, diplomatically.

Lucas hasn’t heard any talk personally, but he can make a rough estimate on how it goes. “What’s so fascinating about it, though? That it was with a man, or what?”

Arthur contemplates for a moment. “People just think he’s crazy. Mad. Insane in the brain.”

“They don’t know him,” says Lucas.

“But you do?”

“Better than _ces idiots_ ,” Lucas says and nods in the direction of the school. “He’s not crazy,” he adds quietly. “He’s- not like any of them. Not like anyone else, in fact.”

Arthur looks at Lucas silently across the table, recognizing his unspoken confession.

“You have to talk to him,” he states simply.

“I tried. I couldn’t find him. Instead I had to rehearse with his guinea-pig for two hours.”

“Guinea-pig?” Arthur asks amusedly.

“Never mind. I can’t find him, and he won’t reply to my messages.”

“So, you search him out! You don’t just stop and give up; it’s not right. You don’t seem right either, right now, actually. You look like shit.”

“That’s just my face. I look like this.”

“My point is; you’re suffering. And after what you’ve said, I’m partial to think... You’re in love, _non_? Miserably maybe, at the moment; but still?” Arthur says. Lucas is quiet, but smiles before he knows it. Because Arthur is right; it’s love, in its truest form that he feels. Like an insistent beam of light inside him that never has been there before.


	14. Grand Allegro 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Your eyes make me shy._
> 
> Anais Nin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **An amazing person made this edit for Grand Allegro. I love the music and imagery of wonderful dancers who embody the Lucas and Eliott of this story. And some good old Élu love.[Watch it and fall in love.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=veIkfF1C3cA&t=1s)**
> 
>  
> 
> **Thanks to each and every one of you reading this story. I'm really touched by your comments.**
> 
> \-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> My endless gratitude to my Argentinian beauty and beta, Roki. You're a gem ♥️
> 
> While I do have knowledge and experience of ballet and being a student at a classical dance school, some things have been altered to a less realistic respresentation for the purpose of creating an appealing story.
> 
> Note that Lucas' thoughts, chat conversation and various French phrases and words are written in italics. I realize it may cause confusion, but I hope it won't. Don't hesitate to ask me if questions arise ♥️
> 
> This is part of a multichapter work that will update weekly. Until the end of time. Bisous (especially to my muses in SUF). Kudos and Komments are highly appreciated ♥️ 
> 
> Written with utmost respect for the creators and characters of the original work.

Thursday February 27. 22.26

 _Somewhere between Neuilly-sur-Seine and Nanterre_ // je ne peux pas

It starts raining when he’s about halfway there. He observes it, but isn’t concerned. Rain is just wetness; it’s nothing. He left his apartment without a jacket and without a plan, but none of that bothers him either. It’s more an instinct that drives him, toward self-destruction or physical proximity; even if it means sitting outside Eliott’s apartment until he ossifies. He’s fine with that, at least indifferent.

The last he had to give has already been offered and dismissed; Eliott walking away from him, his retreating back, replays like a gif in his head. So do his stumbling words and the feeling of the paper bag in his hand containing Eliott’s washed and neatly folded clothes. Waiting like a fool outside the studio, indeterminately between longing and hopeless, until it swung open and he emerged. Eliott entering his field of vision had been shocking; a beauty almost provoking to Lucas unsettled mind.  Five days between last time and then, but time has been elastic lately; stretching and snapping in uncontrollable ways. Winter school break was looming at the horizon; an eternity threatening to widen the distance until there is nothing left of them but a bleak _once upon a time_ that nobody cares about anymore.  Eliott was wearing an expression that Lucas first had judged as unconcern, black tights and white t-shirt with hair wet from sweat, already pulling a sweatshirt over his head.

When Eliott finally had noticed him, Lucas saw nothing like unconcern in his face, however, rather surprise turning into apprehension. He had wanted to explain but knew better than to start rambling about his imperfection; _I miss you. I need you; so bad I can’t function. Forgive me. Take me back or do something else; anything, hurt me._ He had stepped up bravely and given him the bag, pushing it in his hands. A moment had passed during which there had been just the two of them; staring at the package of black cotton memories in Eliott’s hands, his thumb stroking the paper cover. “I know you maybe don’t want to” is all that Lucas had had time to get out before Eliott had looked at him and interrupted, “ _J’suis désolé. J’peux pas_ ,” mumbled and quick, and stepped past him.

Fighting paralysis, he had followed him slowly and mindlessly the short distance to the entrance hall. Lucille stood waiting, just outside. Giving in to the numbness of his limbs, he had watched them leave with dull horror. A soft, feminine hand to Eliott’s back, the glass door swung shut behind him.

All Lucas wants, now, is to sit close by the best place he has known recently, maybe ever. Somewhere unobtrusive, but close to Eliott’s home. Maybe just so he can see the outline of his window; a little light from the odd collection of candles to look at through the night. He hasn’t paid mind to what will happen after; his thoughts are scattered and fly around like worried butterflies. He feels like a shell, void and dark, where nobody wants to be. He has nowhere to escape to but here. Finding a bench, reasonably shadowed by an oak, he slumps on it; but immediately finds it too difficult to look up toward Eliott. _What are you even doing?_ He only musters a glance at his window before hiding his face in his hands, rubbing it hard against tears. No jacket and no plan, and the rain is relentless; but he might as well be here as anywhere else. He tries to remember what he was thinking before deciding to walk the unknown number of kilometers here; the reason is ten meters above him, unaware of his presence. He finds a dry cigarette within the soggy package in his pocket and lights it. Catching him off guard, the memories of Eliott and himself sneak down on him from the faint light inside the apartment. Hot tears mix with the rain on his face, when Eliott’s embrace of him on the bed in the middle of all his worldly belongings gathered in that single room comes to mind; and his kisses, right in that window. He gives in to the grief, trying to make himself smaller and undiscoverable to any inquiring passers-by; rolling thunder helping his solitude. An indefinite amount of time passes; the cold is making him rigid but strangely calm on the inside. Awakened and horrified when voices approach, he starts looking around for a solution or escape. He moves away from the bench, but it’s just two kids on skateboards who swish by without paying attention and the street falls quiet again. His relief proves short-lived, as the sensor lights by the entrance turn on abruptly just after. They are so bright that he shadows his face from them with a hand, but it doesn’t take more than a split-second for him to recognize Eliott. He tries to back away, but it’s too late.

 

Thursday February 27. 23.51

 _La résidence de l’École de Danse de l’Opéra National de Paris (Eliott’s apartment)_ // do you dance like you make love

 

Looking puzzled, Eliott steps out from the backlights and approaches him. Lucas waits for accusations but he just comes up to him quietly; dry and warm.

 “I am lost.”  Lucas clears his throat to get the crack out of his voice. They are the only three words he dares to say.

“It’s alright,” says Eliott and searches his gaze. Lucas eyes traitorously fill up and spill over again, when Eliott looks at him; going from hesitation to tenderness. He puts his hands on Lucas jaw and tilts his face up; inspecting his soaking, clattering, blue-lipped form. “Idiot. It’s freezing. How long have you been standing here?”

Lucas shakes his head and tries to get out of Eliott grip, not ready to cry in his hands. He can’t say how long he has been here, it could be two minutes or two hours; he’s leaning toward the latter.

Eliott grabs his wrist and says “Come here.” Lucas stalls, like a horse being led into a trailer, unwilling to let Eliott pity him. “Come here,” he repeats slightly louder and pulls. In resignation, Lucas lets him take him with. A girl that he recognizes as a junior student sneaks into the elevator as the doors are about to close behind them. Eliott greets her and asks what floor, punches the button for the third and turns to Lucas, who tries really hard to not audibly shudder from cold; thinking their appearance must make them an odd couple. With complete disregard of their company, Eliott starts pulling at the sleeves of Lucas shirt. When he motions for him to lift his arms, Lucas complies; his clattering teeth impeding any objections. Eliott takes the shirt, wiping rain from Lucas’ face with his hand and he only looks at him; feeling like a child who knows he misbehaved.

Leading him into his apartment, Eliott doesn’t care that Lucas is dripping all over the nice wooden floor, but pushes him in front of him into the bathroom. The floor heating is a blessing but he feels like an illegal immigrant finding temporary asylum; does he have the right to be here? Eliott turns on the water and while Lucas attempts to get undressed, because that must be what is supposed to happen now, but his stiff fingers are still uncooperative. He fumbles with his jeans until Eliott comes up and removes his hands, replacing them with his own and shoves his pants down. “ _Merci,_ ” Lucas mumbles as Eliott sits down on the toilet lid. Over-exposed and nervous, Lucas wraps the towel around himself before proceeding with his strip; it seems the right thing to do.

“ _Allez_. Shower,” says Elliot.

“Are you going to be in here?”

“Yes.”

“I’m better now. You don’t have to keep post.”

“Yes, I do,” he says and pulls up a leg, resting his chin on his knee.

Lucas hesitates for a moment but turns around, drops the towel to the floor and steps into the shower. His body aches as the water cascades on him; subtly reinvigorating. When he pulls the curtain back, Eliott has put a pair of sweats and a t-shirt on the sink and left the bathroom. He gets dressed in a hurry but allows himself a long inhale of Eliott when he pulls the t-shirt over his head; it’s impossible not to.

“Thanks, for this,” he says and smooths his hand over the shirt when he finds Eliott in the living room, perched on the sofa in the same position as in the bathroom; one long leg pulled up under his head.

“ _De rien_. I was thinking Romeo’s outfit again, but… that’s warmer,” he jokes lamely.

Lucas works the towel through his hair to cause a delay to the course of events, not knowing what to do with himself. But there is room for him on the sofa and he sits down warily after hanging the towel on a chair. Silence stretches out as they remain still, next to each other but staring straight ahead.

“I came, but… I couldn’t make myself go up here. So I just stayed, there,” Lucas says, and nods at the park outside.

“You could have frozen to death if I hadn’t found you, or gotten pneumonia. Maybe you will, anyway.”

 _Yeah, so_ , Lucas thinks but says nothing. “I didn’t want to disturb, if you-” but he can’t complete the sentence; hating the idea of what he was about to say too much to honor it with a voice. “If you were busy,” he says, instead. “I didn’t want to intrude. I shouldn’t have invited myself in; I should go again,” he rambles and gets up.

“Actually, you didn’t invite yourself in; I did,” Eliott reminds him quietly. It makes Lucas stop in his tracks in the middle of the living room floor, hanging his head. “Lucas, _s’il te plait_ ,” Eliott sighs and scratches his head in exasperation. “Why did you come here? I find you frozen half to death outside my place, because you are too scared to knock the door. I invite you in; and now you want to leave?” he says unconvincedly, with increasing frustration. 

“I came here, because of you,” Lucas says to the floor, before facing Eliott again. “I came for you. Don’t you get that?” His hand comes up across his heart; to protect it or to swear his affection, he doesn’t know exactly. Eliott expression softens at Lucas’ shaky declaration. Lucas is puzzled by the veiled smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth; thinking for a second that he is going to laugh at him.

Eliott gets up, rounds the table and approaches him so slowly that Lucas wants to tell him not to be scared; that he won’t bite or scratch, he’ll be good. The best. And, Eliott looks so good. He is pop art beauty defined, with black clothes, ruffled hair and denim shirt. But Lucas can’t force himself any closer to him than he already has; he needs to be still and wait. His heart won’t quiet; he feels the last days’ empty terror in his blood. Seeping slowly into it is the silent warmth of Eliott coming closer; a careful, atoning drug in his system. Elliot doesn’t stop until he is so close that Lucas has to look slightly up when he stares at him. 

“You came for me?” he asks.

“Of course, I came for you,” Lucas repeats and he could continue, if need be. “I’m yours, if you will have me.”

Eliott closes his eyes and leans in towards him, placing his forehead to his, stroking up his arms. Finding Lucas face; he cups his jaw in his hands that are so warm. It takes all of Lucas’ resolve to not just close in and put his mouth over his. It is just there; with its alluring Amor’s bows and Eliott shifts increasingly closer; his breath brushing Lucas cheek. And in the twinkling of an eye, it’s like he has had enough of stalling; a brutal force cursing through Eliott so tangible that Lucas picks it up before it unleashes, the hands on his face grips harder and Eliott propels into him, putting his lips to his. He kisses like he’s starved for it, Lucas barely hangs on for the first few seconds before he awakes from his state of lost and throws his arms up around Eliott, grasping what he can; flying into his body like an umbrella folding to the wind. A brutal jolt of arousal rams him, with the wet slide of their lips and Eliott angles in deeper; his tongue in Lucas mouth is a shortcut to frenzy. It’s agonizing to cave in, the pent up attraction has nowhere to go but beats inside, like a hammer.

He slides his hands down over Eliott’s front, down and up and down again, rubbing his thumbs over the crest of his hipbones and it makes their bodies graze; legs, thighs and crotch. Eliott’s breath hitches and Lucas knows they need more and starts to pull at his denim shirt as if it offended; an escalating rush of heat takes charge, they are long overdue and need to make it right. Eliott pulls his shirt off and discards it behind him, proceeding to grab Lucas by the shoulders, walking their swaying form around the living room table. When they reach the sofa, he topples them over.

Eliott smooths his hands through his hair, all over his scalp and tugs backward to look at him. “I want you. It’s all I want,” he says. The acceleration slows down momentarily and Lucas tries not to grin; only partly successful, while they breathe and stare. Eliott looks so preciously serious, caressing his cheekbones with his thumbs. Pushing him into the corner of the sofa, Lucas buries his face in his neck and stays there. There are so many endearments coming to his mind that he has to shut his mouth tightly for a moment to not overshare.

He means to embrace tenderly but Eliott’s throat, and his hands going up and down over his back, is too lascivious and he opens his mouth against the skin under his lips, feeling the jugular vein pulse with his heartbeat. Claiming his mouth, Eliott flips them over and aligns his body smoothly on top of him and just like that, romance gives way to carnality.

Eliott slides his hands under his own t-shirt on Lucas body and goes after with his mouth. “Fuck, I missed you,” he says with his lips to his chest, pushing the t-shirt up, sliding his hands into the arms of it and tugs it off Lucas head. He goes back down to his chest, devoting himself to his body and when his hand reaches his pants, he pulls away from Lucas mouth and grasps his cock through the sweats.

Lucas flings his arm across his eyes and moans, trying to push himself into his hand but it disappears. Peeking out under his elbow he watches Eliott get up on his knees, planted on each side of his left leg, boldly staring down on him. He pulls his t-shirt off and works the zipper of his jeans open, sliding his hand inside it, rubbing himself briefly through his underwear before diving down, supporting himself on one elbow to the side of Lucas head, the other hand on his jaw, steering his mouth into his own.

Their kiss is like the equinox of them both; they circle around it trying to make the surface of contact greater, deeper, harder; climbing closer; pulling and tugging. It’s a kiss bordering on sex. Like the most natural foreign act in the world, Lucas parts his legs and lets Eliott slide in between them, wishing he’d done it sooner from how it feels to have his thighs pressed to his slender hips. He just needed the sensation as confirmation; he knows where he wants this to go. His body sends one clear, insistent message and the response from Eliott resounds with a murmuring strength. When he rolls his hips into him; starting up a rhythm of thrusting with unrelenting, languorous cadence, Lucas feels like he’s starting to get stupid with how horny he is. He pushes at Eliott’s jeans, but only gets them half way down and rubs his hands over everything he gets access to; his back, his butt, his thighs. Finally, Eliott pulls off his mouth.

“What do you want?” Eliott hovers above him on his elbows; his eyes two dark pools of untamed need; every vein and muscle standing out. “Anything,” he adds.

“Want you,” Lucas says and kisses him; pouring all his need into his kiss, using his body to convey exactly what it is that he wants, hooking a leg around the back of Eliott’s thigh. As extra topping, he shoves his hand down Eliott’s naked torso straight into his underwear and grasps his cock. “This.”

Eliott inhales sharply at the touch an thrusts into his hand. Judging by the way he looks at him, Lucas is positive that his intentions hit home; that he wants to be fucked and forgiven.

“ _Ah ouais_?” Eliott says and kisses him with fever-hot lips. Then he slides his hand down along Lucas’ side, shoving it into his sweats until he reaches his butt cheek and grips it; pulling him up into his crotch roughly. “You’ll get it, then.”

Lucas lifts up willingly when he pulls his pants down and off and shimmies out of his own; suddenly they are blissfully naked. And it should be a crime, how good it feels. It just escalates; they’re on their way toward zenith with alarming speed but it can’t wait any longer. Eliott; enrapt and transfixing stare, makes Lucas dick drip with anticipation from how he moves on top of him. The world seems quiet outside them; outside Eliott’s lips that feels like thick silk against his own.

“I love your lips. God, I love them,” Eliott says, having entered his mind already; his mouth opening and closing with Lucas’ in long, dirty, tumbling waves. He brings two fingers up to the corner of Lucas mouth, muttering “Make them wet,” and Lucas wants to bite him from how he looks at him when he takes them into his mouth.

“ _Préparation_ ,” he continues after soaking his fingers in spit, sliding them under Lucas butt, huffing out a laugh when he feels Lucas adjust his body into first position. “Not that kind of _préparation, putain_.”

“Oh, really? Here I was, thinking we were about to dance,” Lucas quips but turns serious quickly when he feels Eliott probing him carefully.

“In a way,” he says and gets close to his face, starting to work his finger inside. “It’s gonna feel weird at first. Let it; don’t rush.” Waiting for Lucas to adapt, he puts his mouth to his ear and flicks his tongue to it, saying “I promise to make you feel good.” Lucas’ last brain cell accomplishes a nod of his head in response.

Positioning his cock, Eliott rubs around a little in the saliva, groaning under his breath. Then; impossible size and heavy pressure against Lucas most private of private body parts; what they’re doing is so intimate there’s not entry in his lexicon for it. Having no experience to rely on, all he can do is to live every moment of it, with Eliott who looks at him intently, clenching and unclenching his jaw; inching into him.

It’s difficult to even breach him and when he slides through the initial resistance and stops Lucas is gasping; overwhelmed by the foreign sensation of being invaded and digs his fingers into Eliott’s shoulders, almost lifting him by his skin. In spite of feeling like he might split in two any second, he immediately knows; having Eliott inside his own body is a revelation and the sexiest thing imaginable. Eliott, visibly struggling to keep still, closes his eyes and mutters _Fuck_ ; grabbing Lucas’ head.

Short, tiny moans break out of Lucas mouth under hectic breaths even though there’s no movement and Eliott buries his face in his hair. “Ssh, ssh, relax,” he soothes, “I’m gonna keep right here. You tell me when to move.” He comes up to his mouth, kisses his bottom lip softly. “Don’t stress, _doucement_. We take our time.”

Patience never having been his strong suit; Lucas grinds his teeth against the burning stretch and starts pulling at Eliott to make him bear down into him. Sweat breaks out all over his face, feeling like he’s trying to fit a baseball bat into his body. Eliott pushes his forehead to his cheek, whining as he sinks his cock deeper. The way he groans when he’s fully inside him makes Lucas spare a thought for that little neighbor student and really fucking hopes that she is as deeply asleep as he is getting lost in this. Eliott’s hand clamps down on his hip, holding him steady as he starts to drive himself into him, over and over again, in undulating motion.

Lucas bites his lip hard enough to draw blood at the strong intrusive force of his dick. Willing himself to relax little by little, he finds he can take it. To watch Eliott’s rapidly faltering composure is worth _anything_. He had thought it would be primarily him overcome with sensation but is amazed by what is happening to Eliott; he is already a mess on top of him, gasping helplessly with his mouth against his neck with each slow thrust, mixing saliva with sweat. Be that as it may, Lucas is barely hanging on by a thread and grabs anything he can reach; hair, neck, shoulders, arms. He’s torn into a writhing jumble by the heady feeling of being filled by Eliott and the stretching; beyond his control, in the seam of just enough and too much. 

“Oh, fuck,” Eliott groans when Lucas grabs the cushion under him and responds to his movements with leverage, and puts his lips to his. “You know I’ve been dying to do this, Lucas?” he says, into Lucas’ mouth. “Dying to fuck you senseless.” Desire ascends sharply inside and he bites down on the flesh of Eliott’s shoulder and they are getting lost, quickly; all skin, slippery lips and sweat, and Eliott’s steady thrusting, still languid. The way his body raises over him with each roll of his hips is hypnotizing. Lucas chases his mouth and gets response immediately but it’s hardly a kiss; they breathe each other like a local storm.

The angle changes and it makes Lucas wince as Eliott reaches new depths within him. “I’m sorry, god… I’m sorry,” he gasps and strokes Lucas’ cheek. Lucas doesn’t care about pain; his heart has been bleeding for Eliott bad enough that any physical hurt is negligible. Instead, he grabs his butt, savoring the easy access to it; like it’s his to touch and do what he wants with, and pulls him in harder. Eliott shuts his eyes and grits out “ _Attends, attends._ ”

“You think I can’t take it, hm?” Lucas taunts. “Don’t think I’m man enough?”

Eliott opens his eyes; those eyes that have Lucas thrown up and down and all around town in an instant. “Oh,” he says, and thrusts slowly but forcefully all the way up into Lucas, making his head fall back on the sofa. “I know you’re man enough alright,” he goes on, sliding his hand across his stomach, chest and arm appreciatively. “Never doubted that.”

Lucas squirms under his admiration. “But, if you drive me on like that, this is going to be over before it started …” Eliott continues, turning his head and puts his mouth to Lucas neck, sucking open, long kisses. “And I’d like to take care of you, properly.” He trails his fingers down Lucas chest, playing with the little wispy pool of precome on his stomach before wrapping his hand around his iron dick, starting a slow paced stroking. Eliott’s eyes are glued to his own hand working, until Lucas starts to moan from it.

“God, f- _c’est bon_ ,” he rasps out. Eliott shoves his hand behind his head, slightly lifting it from the sofa and ensues kissing him with an intimation he’s never had before; he could probably come from only that. One hundred percent unable to focus on anything, he can’t do anything but respond to Eliott, who is everywhere; inside him, in his mouth, against his neck, around his cock. His body does what it wants with him; it has him in its grip and so does Eliott. Lucas just tries to ride the wave, bruising Eliott’s bicep with his grip. Knowingly or not, Eliott guides him through a novel register of pleasure that he before only vaguely could discern the depth of, with his velvety voice in his ear, “You feel so fucking good,” through ragged breaths. Lucas feels him straining, holding back, from how he moves erratically; hard thrusts wanting to beat themselves out of his hips only stopped by his perceptible effort. He wants him to unleash and gasps a breathless _Come on_ , and by the feral look on Eliott’s face he knows he’s about to get what he asked for. By a hand on his hip, Eliott angles Lucas back down and hips up. He pushes up, rises higher above him; putting all his weight on one arm. Lucas sees all of his glorious body; his abs contracting in rhythmic waves as he thrusts into him persistently, putting his other hand on Lucas’ cock and continues working it with ruthless talent. Sweat drips from his chest and Lucas lets his eyes roam freely over him; he’s a modern day Eros with a heart of gold, dark mind and body made for sin.

_And you’re mine._

Then he tightens his grip on Lucas’ dick and ups the tempo just a little bit, but it’s enough for Lucas to start spiraling out of control. He reaches desperately for Eliott and hooks his hand around his neck, a column of strength to hold on to. Having his dick inside him as the orgasmic wave starts to build is almost too much; he fears that Eliott or himself might break from the power of sensation but Eliott just keeps rocking him deeper into his sofa.

“Fuck, fuck, I’m going to come,” he groans and with three unforgiving strokes, Eliott pushes him over the edge and into the wild. His mind goes quiet and his body convulses in trashing waves, hearing a whiny surprised moan being pulled out of Eliott as his insides clamp down on his dick in a vice grip. Pleasure coming at him from every direction; Lucas shoots so hard he’s not even sure where it all goes, but there’s not time to think about that. As soon as Eliott has milked him for his last drops, he leaves his dick and grabs him around the hip, digging his fingers into its back and pulls him forward and up forcefully to meet his thrusts. He almost gets up on his knees and tugs Lucas, still reeling, with him. Eliott loses it to helpless orgasm within a heartbeat and drives himself into Lucas with crazy need and starts chanting his name like a hymn. When he climaxes, falling forward with his forehead against his sternum, making delicious moans bordering on suffering; Lucas pulls him in. 

Eliott falls on him with all his weight, depleted of energy and power. He takes so long to descend with Lucas again, never wanting to stop shoving himself inside of him that when he finally stills he wonders if sleep claimed him on his way down. But then he pushes his face up, from his chest to his neck and rasps “Holy fuck,” into Lucas.

“Mmm. Am I dead?”

Eliott laughs and pushes himself up to look at him. “No, you’re alive,” he says and combs his fingers through Lucas’ hair. “You feel very alive to me, at least.”

“You, too.” Lucas looks at the face of his lover. “You’re beautiful,” he says. Eliott doesn’t respond, but leans in and kisses him slowly, moving his hand through his hair over and over. The world outside their sacred, entangled cocoon starts catching up with Lucas; the poignancy of what just happened runs deep within him. It was so much more than just a fuck.

Eliott notices when he can’t keep his bottom lip from trembling between his.  “Hey?” he says. Lucas is momentarily horrified; as surprised at Eliott by the sudden rush of emotion. Eliott’s hand comes up and trails over his cheek while he examines his face. “Hey,” he repeats, silently, voiced like a question. “ _Bébé_.”

Tears spill over and he cries noiselessly into Eliott’s chest, struggling to retain himself. Silent tears for the person he used to be; who fought so hard not to feel this, when all that was to be felt was love. He cries from exhaustion and from happiness. Eliott is a worried mess above him alternating between _ça va_ , _qu’est-ce qu’il ya_ and his simple _bébé_ that makes the tears burn brighter; stroking his head and hushing him. He starts humming a song and wraps his arms around Lucas, where they reach. Unsatisfied, he turns them over to cradle him better. 

Lucas never thought he’d live to see the day when he was sung a lullaby with a dick inside him, but here he is.

“Was it too much?” asks Eliott with his chin on Lucas head.

“I just didn’t know,” Lucas says; incompletely, but Eliott seems to understand.

“Do you wish it would have stayed that way?”

“ _Bien sûr que non_.” But more to love, means more to lose.

 

Friday February 28. 01.10

_La résidence de l’École de Danse de l’Opéra National de Paris (Eliott’s apartment)_

// mirror image

 

They stay wrapped up in each other; there’s something domestically romantic in staying physically connected, literally part of the same being while quietness is restored. When Eliott pulls out it’s a weirder feeling than any one prior; Lucas feels like he might have been emptied of a part of his soul and winces badly.

“Pardon,” Eliott says and kisses the tip of his nose. “Bathroom?”

“ _Nan_ , I’m so good here,” Lucas mumbles half into Eliott’s armpit.

Eliott nuzzles his face again. “Mmm. But unless you absorb what I left inside you, and it was not nothing, gravity is gonna work its magic. I don’t care about messiness, but in this case you might just want to.”

Lucas grumbles and shifts, making no effort to leave. “It’s not magic, by the way; it’s science.”

“Oh, yeah? Okay,” Eliott taunts and rolls on top of him in a swift movement. “And what’s this?” he says, taking Lucas hand and puts it around their dicks, aligned and still erect. “Magic or science?”

Lucas pulls Eliott in by a hand on his neck. “That’s just wild.”

 

*

 

Lucas examines his face in the mirror after reluctantly removing himself from the bed and into the bathroom. With neck bitten raw, chest patched red from Eliott’s stubble, lips sucked swollen and hair on end; he smiles goofily at himself leaning on the sink. He looks kind of good. Almost beautiful.

After doing what Eliott told him to he returns to the living room and finds Eliott by the window, open enough to fit his head and hand; smoking. Lucas slows down and stops in the door, absorbing the view. With bare, pale skin, dark features and a wiry long stretch of body; Eliott is a sight for sore eyes where he leans against the window frame, unconcerned by his own nudity and visibility. Though in all fairness, there should only be shadowy oaks and aspens looking in on them. There is an uncertainty unspoken but present; questions hang in the air but Lucas dodges them, moving through the room.

“ _Coucou_ ,” Eliott says when he approaches him.

“ _Bonsoir_.” Lucas steps closer; shivering slightly when the air from outside brushes past. Eliott looks at him, softly anticipating and wraps his long arms around him when he reaches; pulling him into his body. Standing there naked in embrace with a boy; a man, his own reflection and likeness yet so different, is an epiphany. Lucas’ awe and wonder manifest in his hands, smoothing over Eliott’s body. “Hi,” Lucas whispers and puts his mouth to Eliott’s. Eliott rocks them back and forth where they stand, pulling back to look at Lucas and it makes him timid but too preciously joyful to shy away. He shouldn’t shy away, from this.

“You’re left handed?” he asks, paying thorough attention to how Eliott puts the cigarette to his mouth, sucks, inhales and lets out a thin jet of smoke.

“Ambidextrous. It means you can use both.”

“Aha. How convenient.”

Eliott nods. “It is.”

“How do you choose which one, then?”

“I feel my way.” Eliott stubs out the cigarette and slides his hands around and grabs Lucas butt, massaging it and Lucas is on the brink of telling him to stop because he still feels Eliott’s impaling presence there, like a train just passed through him, but he can’t refuse his body Eliott’s touch. “To this purpose; I think both works. But I might have to assess further.”

“Anything for the sake of science. And magic,” Lucas states. When he shivers, Eliott closes the window and says that Lucas shouldn’t get cold again, taking him by the hand and leads him to the bed, wiping away one dangling question mark from the atmosphere.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation (forgive me if there are some words I missed)
> 
> J’suis désolé (je suis désolé) - I'm sorry
> 
> J’peux pas (je ne peux pas) - I can't
> 
> de rien - you're welcome
> 
> s’il te plait - please
> 
> préparation - preparation (it's also what your ballet teacher says when an exercise or combination is about to start, hence Lucas jokes about it, Eliott obviously means preparation in another sense.)
> 
> doucement - gently/softly/with care
> 
> attends - wait
> 
> c’est bon - it's good/that's good
> 
> (doubt this one needs translating but) bébé - baby
> 
> qu’est-ce qu’il ya - what's the matter
> 
> bien sûr que non - of course not


	15. Grand Allegro 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> romeo + mercutio = ♥
> 
> Warning for romance and shit  
> And smut!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that I took a while to update! Here is the next chapter anyway. 
> 
> Experiencing some technical issues that stop me from posting artwork with each chapter, but it'll be back shortly. Got some new beautiful art to share, as well. 
> 
> If you haven't watched the lovely edit for Grand allegro on youtube, do it [now.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=veIkfF1C3cA&t=1s) A mix of wintery Paris, prestiguous institutions, warm hearts and all-consuming, unconventional love.
> 
> My beta didn't get the chance to read all of this, so I claim full responsibility for typos and any weirdness you might find in there.
> 
> Thanks for reading ♥♥♥

Friday February 28. 08.17

 _La résidence de l’École de Danse de l’Opéra National de Paris (Eliott’s apartment)_ // romeo + mercutio

“Wake up, sleepy.” The bed dipping and then a warm, clothed body draping itself over his naked form with some energy making the bed bounce slightly, rouses Lucas. He startles at the view of Eliott’s face above him. There has been some time since sleep had been this unspoiled. He looks around the room; feeling like the day has started without him.

“What’s happening?” he croaks.

“You were dreaming. And I was watching.”

Lucas rubs his eyes and focuses on Eliott. “I feel underdressed,” he states, leisurely letting his hand roam over Eliott’s cotton back.  

“Mmm. I bet you do,” Eliott says and puts a hand on his abs. “I tried to wake you up before, but…” he goes on and dances his fingers across the curve of Lucas stomach to his crotch, grazing them over his cock; rock hard and ready. “It was impossible. Except, for this.” Grasping it, he pumps it once, pulling back the foreskin and pushes a drop of precome out, making Lucas inhale sharply; unprepared for the sudden stimulation. No barriers of physical strain or psychological tension to break through, desire kindles instantly and spreads blazes from his cock through his somnolent body when Eliott continues his slow ministrations, watching Lucas face absorbedly.

“What are you doing,” Lucas breathes, barely awake and already gasping, grabbing Eliott by the shoulder, even though he feels exactly what he is doing in every fiber of his being.

“Pleasuring you.”

Lucas squirms to reach, but Eliott’s body keeps him in place. His breathing becomes labored and there is no slow build; he goes straight for the apex. Trying to remain collected, he holds his moans as long as he can, but it’s all in vain because Eliott seems to have reached the core of his desire just by the dynamics of his hand; something deep from his guts wants to project, a sharp beam of excruciating tickle. Eliott’s long legs hold him immobilized; hungry for touch all he musters are wavy ripples upwards; toward Eliott who just bites his lip and stares as he jerks him off swiftly.

“I was going to let you be, and sleep.” Eliott, attentive as ever, intensifies his stroking when Lucas moans breathy _ahh_ ’s on each back and forth and clings harder to his shoulders, bringing him closer to the center of the storm. “But I couldn’t.” Hanging on to his neck, Lucas just waits to be devoured by orgasm and starts thrusting blindly into his hand.

His eyes fly open when Eliott suddenly stops his hand. _Fucking asshole, you fucking asshole_. Pulsing and growing impossibly harder, Lucas smacks a hand back against the mattress, whimpering defenselessly. “ _Putain_ , no no no, don’t stop!”

Eliott ignores him and says _Tiens_ , and brings Lucas’ hand to his cock making them hold him together. “You feel this?” He moves them in tandem up and down his length. “You feel how big and hard you are for me?”

“Yeah.” Does he ever.

“Good,” Eliott approves and swats Lucas hand away, continuing to work him while capturing his bottom lip between his. When Lucas tenses and arches in just about bow-shaped levitation from the bed Eliott knows what he’s feeling and speaks with his lips to his; “Come, Lucas.” And with that, it’s over; he comes with a series of drawn out agonizing groans. Clawing at Eliott’s shoulders he almost humps him off his body but Eliott presses down, taking him through it.

Leaving his dick, Eliott puts his hand on Lucas stomach, following the movement of his chest while he returns. When Lucas eyes flutter open, Eliott is right there, so close. When they are like this, Eliott’s expression is always somewhere between wanting to ask about something he calmly but curiously has been pondering in solitude, and wanting to kiss. Lucas pulls him in, turning them around and sinks down on top of him.

“ _Bonjour_ ,” says Eliott. “Your hair looks incredible.”

“How nice of you to say.” He kisses Eliott lingeringly.

“Mmm. Are you awake now?”

“No, I don’t think. You have to try harder,” Lucas says with a suggestive raise of his eyebrows.

“Insatiable. I like that.” Focusing in on his neck, he flips Lucas over again. “And I love this,” he continues. “ _Ton grain de beauté_.” Attacking his throat, he licks his clavicle beauty spot and probes it like he’s pulping a figue with his tongue.

“If I go back to sleep, will you wake me up like this again?” Lucas says, clinging to Eliott’s arm when he leaves him with a kiss on his nose. Dazed and confused, he watches Eliott while he hurriedly starts gathering his dance apparel in a backpack.

“Three hour rehearsal,” he grumbles.

 _Oh. That._ Naturally, Eliott is called in today while everyone else start their weeklong hiatus. _Nothing less for the_ _étoile_ , Lucas reasons and turns over on his stomach; putting his backside on illuminated display. _Go ahead and leave, mother fucker_. Eliott shoves one foot in a shoe, disrupting his haste until he comes to a halt.

“Torturer,” He steps into the room, scandalized. “ _Oui, toi_ ,” he growls at Lucas’ contrived disbelief and mouthed _Moi?_ “You’re doing it deliberately.” Kneeling by the bed, Eliott smooths one hand down Lucas’ back, splaying his fingers over his ass and the other one in his hair, angling his face to him. “You’ll pay, in nature.” With a final kiss, he pushes a key into Lucas hand; _Make yourself at home_ , and disappears. Before the door closes, he peeks in with an undeclared intention but leaves it dangling in the air, adding to the garland of clandestine matters.

 

Friday February 28. 10.15

_La récidence de l’École de Danse de l’Opéra National de Paris (Eliott’s apartment)_

 

_Lucas: My clothes are still kinda wet. Can I borrow the ones u gave me last night?_

_Eliott: Starting to think you’re using me for my wardrobe._

_Eliott: Of course, you can._

 

 _Lucas:_   ~~Thanks.~~

~~Thank you.~~

~~I appreciate it. Thank you.~~

~~Thanks for yesterday~~

~~Thanks. What are you doing later?~~  

_Thanks._

                           

Friday February 28. 11.41

 _The apartment_ // kiss and tell

“Well, hello! Happy holidays!”

Not more than thirty seconds into his arrival – he has barely had time to close the door and pull the damp sweatshirt, which he futilely had tried to shield himself from the winter with, over his head – cross examination commences at home. His original plan, to sneak in unheeded, shower and eat chips in his room, backfires tremendously; Mika and Manon have now not only witnessed his arrival, but also his trying to keep it unnoticed.  After greeting them awkwardly he is stopped by Mika’s hand grasping his arm and _Oh no, you don’t_ when he tries to skate past the kitchen table. 

Sighing, Lucas frees himself from Mika. “I’m really tired.”

“No, you’re not.”

Sensing he won’t be as fortunate as last time, when Manon didn’t bring up what she already had discerned until after a round of desperate sex, Lucas takes a juice box out of the refrigerator and stays with them. “You know that there’s no actual holiday, right?”

“Well, you sure look like you celebrated something.” Mika gives him a once-over and squints. “And you’re not wearing your own clothes, unless you shrunk, which I hope for your sake that you didn’t.”

Manon puts her head in her hand and scratches her chin. “And they’re not Chloe’s.”

“Unless she expanded,” Mika points out.

“Unless she expanded. So, that leaves us with what?”

Lucas takes long swigs from the carton, wiping his mouth with the backside of his hand and stares back at them. “I’m just gonna let you two keep going, you seem to have found your thing.”

“We’re not completely useless, you know. Now, spill! Talk,” Mika says and slams his palm to the table.

“Eliott?” Manon helps and before he can curb it, a smile tugs at his lip.  _Fuckhead, stop._

“I should have texted you maybe, to let you know I wasn’t coming home. But I didn’t know, on beforehand. So.”

“So, you talked to him, or what?”

Lucas has no response for that. Breathy confessions amidst otherworldly sexual pull may not exactly be equivalent to talking, but he keeps pending questions at an arm’s length; happily so. “Some.”

“Ssh, that’s not what we’re interested in,” Mika interrupts. “You fucked? Had sex? Boum-boum, shake the room?”

 _Kind of accurate description, when it comes down to it._ Still feeling Eliott like a phantom in his body, he succumbs to the immense satisfaction of having had him. Like that. “Maybe.”

“That’s a yes. Oh my god, I’m so proud of you, _chaton_.”

“Finally,” Lucas scorns, awarded with a quiet laugh by Manon.

“Carry on. Feed the sexual scavengers; this place is a monastery lately,” Mika remarks. Manon remains irreproachably innocent at the discord between Mika’s comment and recent events, Lucas observes with a sidelong glance.

“Go get some yourself,” Lucas dismisses but Mika ignores him.

“Did you make sweet love or fuck? How is his body, how is his dick?”

“That’s it, I’m done talking.” Lucas puts the juice back in the fridge. “Why are you so interested in that?”

“Ooh, jealous already. You’ll have a whole horde of collegial envy to deal with, if you continue down that road, so brace yourself. ”

 

Friday February 28. 20.58

 _The apartment_ // colorful

Cosmos, destiny, or the god that he doesn’t believe in, has shown him a new color, never seen before. _The color's nane is Eliott. Bathe in it and discover yourself; paint yourself and become real, become sanctified, become a man_. His reflection reveals no extra limbs grown over night, nothing visible; peaceful exterior and revolutionary inside. For the sake of balance he decides to use his body for something familiar; running. The sound of his shoes beating the asphalt normally shields him both from intrusive thoughts and, at times, people but he can’t seem to outrun Eliott. There is the blatantly obvious evidence of their love-making, namely his sore ass, but even more persistent is the vivid imagery in his mind. Eliott is all he can think about. He had been so close, just there. _And where is he now_.

Coming home, he lets everything spill to Manon while stretching and eating simultaneously on the living room floor. Mika is nowhere to be found; napping, Manon informs when Lucas asks.

“Good,” he says.

“He doesn’t mean to be annoying, you know. It’s just jargon.”

Lucas abandons the splits and returns to eating. “No I know. It’s just easier; talking to you.”

“I’m glad you still think that.”

Lucas looks at her and chews with a little more diligence than absolutely necessary, stalling for time to wipe his mind clean of images of Manon in a rather different position, than sitting cross legged in the sofa struggling to roll up noodles on sticks. “Why wouldn’t I,” he says with a smug smile.

“Honestly, I feel like I’ve been a shitty friend lately.”

Lucas has been so busy with his own shittiness and failure that he wouldn’t have noticed if someone committed a murder next to him. “But, why?”

“I know you’ve had a hard time. We didn’t talk, properly.”

“You don’t have to worry about me,” Lucas brushes her off and puts his empty plate on the floor.

“I do, though.”

Wishing she could stroke his cheek until his anxious mind quietens, just a bit of motherly substitute for love, he shakes his head; “None of that matters; still don’t deserve you.”

It takes nothing more than her silently caring deer eyes and a request to say what really happened for Lucas to lay everything bare; how he left last night, hopeless and desperate beyond repair, Eliott taking him inside and then him, taking Eliott inside.

“Okay. Stop, for a bit. What about your other affairs? Unpopular opinion, maybe, but you both have disturbed relationships to the opposite sex,” Manon says when she learns about the still undetermined status of relation between him and Chloé and, as far he knows, between Eliott and Lucille.

“It’s not that easy.”

Manon doesn’t approve; he can tell. “I didn’t say it’s easy.”

He knows he has pushed it too far with Cholé, in every direction possible and then back again. He feels her gearing up for a kind but authoritative rebuke which doubtlessly will begin with _Lucas, écoute_ but what he initially assumes is a bird knocking its beak against the window and into their therapy session steals the attention of them both. When it repeats, Manon gets up and looks out, standing on tip-toes to peep over the tall fern on the window sill. She falls back on her heels with a gasp. “Pretty sure that’s for you.”

Lucas gets up gingerly and limps over to her, sore from the run.

Breaking apart, but soothingly so; Lucas’ insides flinch sharply from the sight. The sun has set but the figure on the pavement below is illuminated by street lights and Lucas would recognize him anywhere, anyhow. Eliott stands fiddling with stones in one hand, cigarette in the other, the gray hood of his sweatshirt pulled up but his chiseled features reveal him. _Oh my god_ , Manon hisses with a hand on the side of her face and backs away.

Wind takes his hair and throws it around every which way it pleases while Eliott and he exchange a long, quiet look across the span between the balcony and the asphalt, until Eliott breaks into a face-splitting smile. “You could have broken it,” Lucas chides, but it’s pointless. Had Eliott in fact broken the window, he would still be standing there, grinning down at him like a Cheshire cat.

“But I didn’t.”

“Are you familiar with the concept of door bells?”

Eliott laughs and twists the sole of his shoe over his discarded cigarette. “Can I come up?”

“It’s around the corner.”

Eliott gives the balcony closest to the ground a measuring look and heaves himself up, balancing on the railing. Catlike and death defying, using the drainpipe as leverage, he climbs.

“ _Es-tu fou_?” Lucas hisses, leaning out and reaching. He shakes his head but has no words when Eliott finally hauls himself up the third and last balcony, landing next to him.

“Hi,” Eliott says, slightly out of breath, with shyness in sharp contrast to his heroic ascent.

“Hi.”

Lovesick for him and buttered up by his wooing, Lucas embraces Eliott’s face when he steps up and angles in; his jawline is perfectly cut for his hands, and otherwise. “Hi,” Eliott repeats and searches him out with his lips; delving into sensuality and his mouth.

His tongue is warm but the rest is cold; feeling the chill of his hands, Lucas brings him abruptly inside. Eliott looks around the living room, with remarkable likeness of a fascinated child.          Conflictingly, his otherwise appearance reminds Lucas of an intruder, missing the balaclava, with his dark clothes; out to snitch his heart. _Take it, as a souvenir if you want._

“You have nice plants,” Eliott notes quietly. He examines a Bonsai tree standing on the floor in a ceramic pot.  “I used to have one of those. I left it in New York.”

“Thanks. I shouldn’t take credit, though.”

“Are you the _coloc_ who never cleans or waters?” Eliott says and puts a hand on Lucas’ neck. “I bet you are.”

“Keep in mind, I’ve seen your place.”

“And? You wanna complain?” Eliott tries to pull him into his body but, resisting, Lucas tugs at his shirt.

“Come.”

He goes for the immediate seclusion of his room, ignoring the curious swivels of Eliott’s head. “Bathroom; kitchen; Mika,” he summarizes as they navigate through the apartment, hurrying past Mika’s bowl of cereal and tentative _Coucou._ The others, they’ll just have to patiently wait their turn.

“I can’t believe you did that.” Lucas slams the door shut behind him and backs Eliott up against his desk. A quick flashlight of surprise flickers in his eyes before he sinks down against the wood.

“ _Quoi_?” Eliott smirks, noticeably pleased with himself underneath the layer of innocence.

“It was impressive; I’ll give you that, _Romeo_.” Lucas steps in between his legs, making room for himself. “But I see what you’re doing. Grand romantic gestures; thinking it’ll get you into my pants,” he goes on, interrupting Eliott’s initial, halfhearted attempt at purity.

He gives a naughty smile and winds a hand through Lucas’ hair. “I’m ready to beg.” Lucas caresses his lips with his own, affected by sudden wonder with how the air charges up so quickly; it’s delicious but frightfully potent.

Kissing Eliott is an avalanche of lust and recklessness, and Lucas vaguely wonders if he feels the same; if he struggles to remain with feet planted on earth as well. The way Eliott comes at him conveys he is not alone, but then he slows it down and Lucas is already pathetically short of breath.

“How was your day?” he asks, pushing strands of Lucas’ hair behind his ears.

“Oh. Quiet.”

Lucas politely puts his guest’s jacket and shoes away, feeling increasingly a match to _the coloc who never cleans or waters_ , aware of Eliott studying his room.

Eliott sits down on the bed, eyes on the pile of books on the bedside table. “Better than mine, I bet.”

“Why so?”

“Rehearsal was a joke. I’m pretty sure Auguste thinks I have an intellectual disability. Or physical. Or both.”

Lucas chuckles, watching Eliott where he sits; still not remotely over the fact that he is there, in the flesh. “What happened?”

Eliott shrugs. “I was distracted.”

“By what?”

Eliott strokes his hands up Lucas hips when he comes close enough. “You.” The warm, restless energy from his hands wants to travel, grip and pull; it’s physically perceptible even though Eliott just smooths his fingers softly over the sides of his thighs.  Physically perceptible as well is the violent escape of blood to Lucas dick from the rest of his limbs, he fills up so rapidly it’s embarrassing but there is nothing for it. The buzz of Eliott’s phone cuts off their trajectory towards each other just before he can put his lips to him.

Lucille’s malapropos name lighting up the display causes Lucas to flinch and draw back, and Eliott doesn’t react until he does. He turns off the vibration and flings the phone behind him, reaching out for Lucas again but he is ready to spew fire and doesn’t move, tense from indignation. Eliott studies him quietly, before he moves across the bed, pulls his legs up and reclines.

Lucas is approaching the end of his rope, mind racing with confusion but has no choice but to climb in over Eliott, when he reaches out his hand. Every potential threat and hurt is held at bay as long as they touch, as long as they kiss and settling onto Eliott, he could overlook anything.

Eliott welds them together by one hand on the back of his thigh and the other on his head, bringing their lips together with vigor. _You’ll be the death of me; welcome_.

Coiling under and around him, Eliott talks into his mouth. “I saw you looking at me. Even from the start, I felt you, strong.”

“Could say the same, to you.”

“That I was looking at you?”

Lucas pushes his hand into Eliott’s hair, inflicting just a little pull of his fingers. “That’s one word for it.”

“ _Oui. Mon beau_ ,” Eliott admits. “Your face speaks a million words. Maybe I knew what you wanted, before you did.”

Lucas scoffs. “So confident.”

“So transparent.” Eliott toys and pushes at Lucas’ bottom lip with a finger. “You’re so raw. When I said I was dying to fuck you, I wasn’t joking.”

“And what are you now?” Lucas breathes, pulling up a leg along Eliott’s.

“And now,” Eliott deliberates, shoving his hands forcefully under Lucas jeans and onto his butt; “I’m dying to do it again; and again,” he finishes, pushing fingers into his flesh and his crotch onto his own.

“Hey, no! Restraining order on your dick. Effective tonight,” Lucas says and sits up, straddling him and pulls at his wrists. “You’re banned.”

Eliott giggles and removes his hands. “I know.” Stilling, he pushes his thumbs into Lucas groins and rubs small circles. “You’re not, though.”

The connotations blare like the sound from a horn and Lucas tears off his own t-shirt, Eliott coming after his body and plants his mouth to his skin; lapping succulent, moist kisses to his pecs.

Hearing Eliott’s phone vibrate again, he could throw that fucking thing into the wall. He doesn’t need to see the screen to know who it is, and he knows what a call at midnight on a Friday means. She can fuck off; all the way off. The night belongs to the poets and the madmen, of which she is none and they are both.

Eliott twists under him, reaching to turn the phone off and even in rage; a glimpse of the muscles and powdery-nude nuanced skin of his back distracts Lucas. Dropping his phone rattling to the floor, Eliott succumbs to the insistent pressure of his hand, turning him by the hip onto his stomach while the other shoves his t-shirt higher on his back.

Spurred by frustration, Lucas grinds them both into the mattress, bowing to Eliott’s neck and rolls his hips down into his butt with more force than he foresaw and _god_ , was that a good idea if he ever had one. His urge is banal but of Herculean strength; he wants to get into his underwear. Down with everything, off and away and inside. He wants his face there, his dick, he wants to live there. He forces himself on Eliott and he lets him; he yields like warm butter in his hands; breathing deeply through his soft pout of lips. Dimly aware of how people for some reason insists one should take it slow, but acting in radically converse direction, Lucas fumbles for his zipper. In a series of swift movements, Eliott works a hand in under himself and tears his buttons open, Lucas pulls and it dawns on him that he is moments away from fucking him. He drops his head to Eliott’s shoulder blade, scrambling for control.

Eliott presses the fingers of his left hand into Lucas’ scalp and breathes heavily into his mouth when he bends in over his shoulder in a squishy, diagonal kiss.

“You’re so fucking sexy,” Lucas says, sketching soft lines along Eliott’s flank with his fingertips. _And mine, you better know you’re mine_. “Stayed on my mind all day.” Lucas resolve folds when Eliott responds by opening one knee for him against the mattress, hitching his leg up as far as it goes with jeans around his thighs.

Eliott’s body is everything; hard muscle, firm butt, smooth skin, soft earlobe. It is unbelievable that he just gives it to Lucas, spread out and panting underneath him; even though Lucas did the very same in recent past. He gyrates himself into the mattress and moans his name and Lucas can’t stand the sight of him; even less how it makes his cock slot in between his butt cheeks. Tethered by inexperience but driven by need, he moves; rubbing himself against Eliott’s body, flushing with the realization that what he engages in is a form of masturbation; inching closer to the place where his body screams and points for him to go.

The friction from thrusting into Eliott’s skin is more than flesh and blood can stand but he still wants more; he doesn’t mean for it to happen so quickly but when the ball starts rolling it won’t stop. Everything becomes quiet when Lucas takes himself in hand and slides the head of his dick along, probing until he finds the spot that gives way, and surges forward.

Incredibly introduced to the inside of Eliott’s body, he pushes into him with a stuttering breath, shaking on his arm. He immediately wants to bury himself headlong; further, harder, slam all of his cock into him but a weak voice of reason urges halting; to not be too rough and _don’t fucking come, breathe_. It’s an unprecedented provocation, Eliott is so warm; hot enough to melt and dissolve his dick and so tight it titillates his nerve endings so good that he bites down hard on his lip to assuage the sensation. He drops his head onto Eliott’s back heavily, bracing himself on his hands on each side of him. Eliott’s eyes are closed and his breath comes in short huffs through gritted teeth. “ _Détends toi,_ ” Lucas returns his advice because that must be the right thing to say, kissing his back delicately. He knows he is being too quick and rough when he capitulates, shoving himself forward.

“ _Fuck_ , Lucas,” Eliott groans and pushes his head into the pillow, trying to suffocate his voice but it fills the room anyway. As he starts to fuck him, it clearly promises to last all of two glorious minutes; his Adonis is lethal.

He shoves his hand under and around Eliott’s right shoulder, feeling primitive from the way he claims him but he has so much to give. And he gives everything, sinking his dick into him with compulsion, fisting his rolled-up shirt. Bound to feel this, heavily, Eliott presses his hand white-knuckled against the wall in front for support; Lucas hips punching moans out of him.

He worships his own effect on Eliott and he wants him to feel everything and take it; to bring him into the present with all he’s got, wiping out those phone calls from existence for all everlasting eternity. Lucas needs him to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, who he belongs to and while words fail him, his body doesn’t. Not a care in the world except for the savant beauty under him and their sex, he lets out all his pleasure, jealousy-ridden and hot, into the nape Eliott’s neck; savagely kissing it and savoring his sweat.

Moving up, he strikes gold. The angle changes and so does Eliott; he inhales cuttingly and garbled moans of increasing amplitude are pulled out of him, squirming slowly like a snake beneath Lucas. He might be a novice lover of a man, but is not a stranger to male anatomy and knows what he’s doing when he keeps Eliott exactly in that place by a hand on his hip and drills his cock into the same spot over and again.

Eliott cuffs Lucas wrist in a bruising grip and clings to it; staring through cloudy eyes back at him for a moment; face like he borders on suffering but his breathy benedictions say otherwise. His eyes are scalding hot and dark; Lucas who has to avert his own and he tries to hold back, he really does. It’s to little avail, when Eliott shifts and the pressure on his dick increases. Lucas bites on his neck hard enough to rip the skin off, hears him hissing but he’ll just have to deal, and groans animalistic with the burning onset. He desperately tries to work a hand in under Eliott who doesn’t cooperate, but is beginning to sound an awful lot like he’s either dying, crying or coming. Before Lucas manages to wriggle his hand in and down his stomach, Eliott rises on his elbows like a breaking wave, his insides slamming shut on Lucas dick. When it hits him that he is getting him off without a hand to his cock, his brain can’t cope and when Eliott pleading cry _putain_ confirms it, the curtain down is pulled down before his eyes and he falls into the abyss, praying to god against Eliott’s skin. The third time the phone vibrates goes by unnoticed by the grace of the sounds from their love-making.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> es-tu fou - are you crazy


	16. Grand Allegro 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Love is a canvas furnished by nature and embroidered by imagination._
> 
> Voltaire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Come talk to me on[tumblr](evestrand.tumblr.com)**! I'm sharing all things inspirational and I hope taking part of it will make for a better reading experience. Everything is welcome and I'd love to hear from you. Questions, prompts, or just to talk shit ♥️
> 
> The parts of this chapter are called _colorful, hunger_ and _metamorphosis_ and I think that speaks for itself to some extent.  
>  _________________________________________________________________________________________________________
> 
> My endless gratitude to my Argentinian beauty and beta, Roki. You're a gem ♥️
> 
> While I do have knowledge and experience of ballet and being a student at a classical dance school, some things have been altered to a less realistic respresentation for the purpose of creating an appealing story.
> 
> Note that Lucas' thoughts, chat conversation and various French phrases and words are written in italics. I realize it may cause confusion, but I hope it won't. Don't hesitate to ask me if questions arise ♥️
> 
> This is part of a multichapter work that will update weekly. Until the end of time. Bisous (especially to my muses in SUF). Kudos and Komments are highly appreciated ♥️ 
> 
> Written with utmost respect for the creators and characters of the original work.

 Friday March 1. 20.58

_The apartment_ // colorful

(Continued)

The postlude has distinct features in common with waking up hungover. Lucas rests his head on Eliott’s shoulder with dry mouth and pounding head. Initially it’s out of exhaustion; a blissful sailing down from heaven, but as the seconds tick by he is increasingly aware of how whatever he tried to punch out of himself and Eliott is still there. Eliott reaches around and finds his face, blindly tapping his fingers around, drawing random patterns on his cheek. Lucas doesn’t want to open his eyes, or the Pandora’s Box of questions that he needs answered.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, finally risking a peek up over Eliott’s shoulder. His eyes are still closed; face damp and flushed reddish pink.

Eliott smiles crookedly and shrugs a little. “Love hurts.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

Still dripping inside Eliott, Lucas lifts himself up, pulls out and falls down on the side next to him.

“See, I hurt you,” he says when Eliott cringes from his drastic removal.

“Chill. I’m not complaining. Doubt I’ll be walking right tomorrow, though.”

Afflicted by a combination of guilt and wariness, and shame for taking it all out on Eliott, Lucas can’t choose between cuddling and questioning him. He rolls over on his back, looking for the solution in the ceiling but there are no stars or poetic quotes to help. Eliott stretches, long and leisurely like a feline animal.

In spite of the tornado of fucked-up that’s gearing up to unleash, he melts when Eliott captures him with an arm flung over his chest, pushing his head into his ribcage. He reminds Lucas of an overgrown pup. He tilts his chin up and hopes a thorough kiss will suffice as apology. Looking up at him, Eliott is too beautiful to be angry with; all the more reason for caution. “You rocked my world,” he says and jabs a finger into his ribs.

Lucas shimmies down to be level with Eliott, throwing his arm and leg around him, unifying them in a half-dressed mess. “Did you really just say that?”

“I know you love the praise.”

“ _Chut_.”

“So transparent.” Eliott shuts Lucas up by kissing him; deep and good and tranquilizing. “It’s true, though.”

When the phone rattles on the floor again, Lucas isn’t surprised but all the more disillusioned. He can’t even be bothered to hide his contempt, groaning and rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes.

“Don’t bother about that,” Eliott says, trying to lift Lucas hands off of his face.

“Yeah… thanks.” He gets up and closes his pants; needing distance abruptly. “Give me a sec,” he interrupts Eliott’s beseeching _Lucas_ and summons whatever reason and understanding that he has left in his much drained storage of inner resource.

Eliott generously waits ten seconds before he tries again. “What is it?”

_Well, what could it be?_ “Are you going to tell me?” he continues.

Lucas is incredulous at Eliott’s lack of comprehension. Or, alternatively, at his cruel attempt to force it out of him. “What do you think?” He turns toward the window to buy time; he doesn’t know how to continue.

Eliott gets up and places a hand between his shoulder blades and a kiss in his hair but he can’t reciprocate the affection. He refuses to be the fool of his heart, it’s too costly.   

“Are you jealous? Is that what this is?”

Nowhere in his plans has Lucas allowed for confessing anything of the sort. “She calls you; a hundred times.” Lucas shakes his head miserably. “While we’re …”

“Fucking?” Eliott suggests.

“I’m serious.” Lucas turns around and leans back against the window.

“So am I,” says Eliott. He sits down, eyes searching around the room for a direction of what he wants to say. He’s quiet for so long that Lucas starts to itch. “I know Lucille from before. Way before. And she was there for me when I came back here. I didn’t know anyone.” Eliott pats his pockets compulsively and shuffles over to his jacket. He looks at Lucas with some sort of invitation to respond, but what is he to say? _I hate that. Unknow her._ “I don’t think many wanted to know me,” Eliott sits down in lotus position on the bed and assembles a cigarette with the type of skill that can only be acquired through extensive practice. He speaks slowly as if considering every word; knowing they will be scrutinized. “She has been a friend, with benefits maybe, but still.”

Lucas hands him a lighter. “Didn’t you ever just… need that?” Eliott pleads.

“I guess.” Too many times to willingly admit. He puts a half-empty cup of stale coffee that he finds in the bookshelf on the floor next to the bed and turns back to the window.

“She doesn’t expect things from me. She doesn’t know where I am, but I doubt she’d be surprised.” Eliott scoffs and shrugs slightly; “Now that I say it out loud, I’m not sure what she gets out of this.”

Lucas watches him and has a pretty good idea. “I think I know,” he says.

Eliott brushes off the vague compliment. “You’re right; she calls, she has the right to. But it doesn’t matter.” He quietens and forces Lucas to look at him, through diffused twirls of smoke. “Why do you think I came here? It wasn’t just to get into your pants. Although I confess to hoping it might be in the mix, as well.”

Lucas can only take so much of his veiled acknowledgments; as much as he appreciates the attempt at honesty he’d kill for a clear, day-by-day bullet point plan of what’s going to happen.

“Whatever happens,” Eliott interrupts himself and deliberates, watching Lucas and making him wonder if he accidentally said something out loud. “Whatever… happens, she’ll still be a friend, I think. And I’m happy for that, in a way.”

“Yeah?” Lucas closes in on Eliott and snatches the cigarette from his hand. “In a way.” He smokes with feigned contemplation, letting it out slowly through his nose and mouth. He puts one knee on the bed next to Eliott’s, rising up in front of him. Eliott’s eyes rake all over his naked torso and he enjoys watching the seduction seep in. “What way is that? Is it this way?” Grabbing Eliott’s hand, he lets it traverse his own stomach and down to his crotch. Eliott wastes no time and tries to shove his fingers past the waistline, but Lucas pulls them away. “Or, is it this way?” he continues, putting his mouth to his neck in a slow lick against the salty skin, and his hands to his thighs.

Eliott surges up, pulling Lucas down astride his lap by hands on his back. “It was never the same. Light years away.” Eliott’s words and the press of his pulpy lips filter the anger away, slowly but surely and Lucas is eager to let go. Slanting their faces, he darts his tongue into Eliott’s mouth and sinks down heavier; exhaling long from relief and flutteringly awakening lust.  “You know that.” Eliott brings his arms around him snugly, responding like a dream. _How is it that he always just wants him, responsive, open and zealous?_ “It’s just distraction. Lucille, all that. It could never be anything else,” Eliott mutters by his throat, breaking his musing.

Lucas strokes his cheek with his own. “Why is that?”

“Because everyone else fades next to you.”

Hopes soaring, Lucas sinks back, sitting between Eliott’s sprawled legs. Picking up his phone, Eliott swipes around a bit before talking into it; “Hi. I saw that you called me. Spending time with Lucas this weekend. I’ll talk to you later.”

Feeling like he needs to rewind, slow down and take supporting notes, Lucas looks between the phone and the Eliott. “That easy?”

Eliott interlaces their fingers and shrugs. “I’ll have to explain better, at some point. But I’ve got everything I want, right here.” he says, pulling Lucas into him.

Never a shrinking violet before; Lucas still blushes. “What if I have plans, this weekend.”

“Cancel them.”

Bringing his face close, Lucas pinches Eliott’s cheeks. “So confident.” Then he embraces him, much like he has needed to do every day for the last month but not been able to. It’s a lot to recompense and he has only just begun.

 

Friday March 1. 23.03

_The apartment_ // hunger

It’s not until the instinct of hunger kicks in and pops the bubble, by a loud rumble in Eliott’s stomach, that they slowly pull apart. How much time has passed is unclear and it’s such a relief to forget about it; about classes and schedules and obligations.

“I don’t need to,” Eliott grumbles on Lucas’ shoulder and reinforces his hold around him. “I almost fell asleep here.”

“You need to,” Lucas says and tries to untangle. “If a banana truly is all you had since rehearsal, you definitely need to. I’ll fix you something.”

“Another banana?”

It’s a problem that he almost starved to death the preceding days; his shelf in the refrigerator gapes empty as a pocket with nothing to lose.

“Where’s Romeo?” Mika saunters in and asks with undisguised curiosity. He is not much for disguises. “He left already?

“He’s in the bathroom.”

“Oh.” Mika sits down and starts peeling an orange. “That makes you Juliet! Eureka!” he exclaims and giggles.

Lucas squints at him over his shoulder. “Weren’t you busy… sleeping, or something?”

“Dear, I tried to; just after I tried to have a decent conversation on the phone with my mother – she called to let me know her elbow is finally getting better – but you know what? I couldn’t. What were you doing in there; moving furniture? A bit of evening remodeling?”

Lucas peeks out from the kitchen cabinet. “No.”

“Oh, no? Really. I had to tell my mum the upstairs neighbors were having a party,” Mika says and bangs the back of a chair into the wall repeatedly for emphasis.

“Stop, stop, I got it.”

“And gag yourselves; do whatever you have to do, if that’s gonna be a recurring thing.”

Digging out a package of eggs, Lucas distracts himself by scanning it thoroughly for a best-before indication. “Why didn’t you just talk in your room?”

“I was talking in my room.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

“Anyway, when did you become such a prude? Jealous, much?”

“It’s _envious_ , Lucas, not jealous.”

“ _Voilà_ ,” Lucas says and proceeds with the preparations. Eliott shows up in the doorway; face and hands dripping.

“There was no towel,” he explains and pushes his fingers through his hair, making it stand up in all angles. _Everybody must be in love with him._

 

Saturday and Sunday March 2-3.

_The apartment_ // metamorphosis

Eliott loves to cuddle. He loves to hold and to be held; to put his lips against Lucas and linger, making the journey over his body in ultra-rapid. And travel into his body, in less unhurried style. He loves to kiss. It makes his breath catch so responsively as soon as Lucas deepens it and takes more. It quickly becomes a road to madness. Eliott loves to mantle Lucas with his body, covering and keeping him wedged underneath him; kindly trapped. Lucas doesn’t mind being ensnared with his every movement depending on Eliott, it’s his case anyway. He loves when Lucas pushes him into the mattress by his biceps and aligns his body on top of his; to have his strength matched and to know that whatever he has to give, Lucas can take. He harbors a special appreciation for the mole on the base of his throat, eyes and mouth going there unless occupied elsewhere.

“Aïe! It doesn’t come off, you know.” Lucas snickers and fingers the mark carefully when Eliott unlatches his lips from his neck with a noisy slurp. “What’s your thing with that thing, anyway? It’s just a birth mark.”

“It’s so personal.” He dives in for it again, tipping Lucas over on his back in the process.

 “Vampire.” Lucas groans from the suction on his skin, already stinging raw.

Eliott flicks his tongue over his slightly pointed canines. “Here to suck you dry.”

 *

They sneak into the kitchen when the apartment is asleep, laughing, naked and careless, rummaging through the shelves only coming up with Oreos and room tempered mineral water. It is not cold when February becomes March, in a shirtless embrace on the balcony. They watch the deserted streets like two misbehaving safe keepers, giggling when Eliott spits, accidentally hitting the front window of a gray Range Rover below. Time stretches out over their endless knot of exhaustion and recuperation. The boundaries between night and day blur, between dark and bright; the early hours are silvery and cold but the bed is warm and so are they. Only a breath changes the tide in an endless ebb and flow of sense and sex. Sleep is overrated and only guest stars for a few hours after Lucas, unable to stop kissing Eliott, feels him yawn into his mouth and dreamless oblivion claims them both. Letting the world hurry by outside of Lucas’ bedroom; they take turns of kangaroo care, the only difference from its typical denotation is that it’s with an almost full-grown man, but it’s equally nurturing. Yet, the moments of quietness with Eliott wrapped around him and face planted to his skin, rings a distant bell of infantile safety in spite of every other instance pointing in a drastically different direction, to what they really are: lovers.

If he could go back in time some, he would tell himself: _it’s not your fault, none of it is_. It’s no wonder you’re lost because there is nothing there; nothing to find. You don’t know yet, what’s written in the stars for you. It won’t be what you expect, but he will paint the whole image on your skin, in explicit detail for you to see and to feel. He has already seen you when you weren’t looking, from a different direction, and he saw something no one else could. Now he’s here to lead you where you were destined to go all along, a road less traveled, just follow.

When Monday morning comes and Eliott has to leave, late as ever, it’s unsettling to watch him slide around the room and organize himself. Not because Lucas is especially sympathetic toward him being late; rather, he’d wish to make him even later. Or just a no-show.

“You can take the elevator down, if you want to,” Lucas says, head hanging over the edge of the bed, blowing on his coffee but still manages to burn himself.

Eliott smiles eye-crinkingly and kisses the stinging lip. “I’ll see you, lionheart."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I invent words that don't exist in English, because I need them. I hope you'll tolerate some inaccuracies ☺  
> Also, the phrase "gapes empty as a pocket with nothing to lose" is from a Paul Simon song that I like. So all cred to him.


	17. Grand Allegro 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dancing and playing right along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Come talk to me on[tumblr](evestrand.tumblr.com)**! I'm sharing all things inspirational and I hope taking part of it will make for a better reading experience. Everything is welcome and I'd love to hear from you. Questions, prompts, or just to talk shit ♥️
> 
> _________________________________________________________________________________________________________
> 
> My endless gratitude to my Argentinian beauty and beta, Roki. You're a gem ♥️
> 
> While I do have knowledge and experience of ballet and being a student at a classical dance school, some things have been altered to a less realistic respresentation for the purpose of creating an appealing story.
> 
> Note that Lucas' thoughts, chat conversation and various French phrases and words are written in italics. I realize it may cause confusion, but I hope it won't. Don't hesitate to ask me if questions arise ♥️
> 
> This is part of a multichapter work that will update weekly. Until the end of time. Bisous (especially to my muses in SUF). Kudos and Komments are highly appreciated ♥️ 
> 
> Written with utmost respect for the creators and characters of the original work.

Tuesday March 5. 15:12

_L’AngeVin_  // shout

An orchestra of little bells deputizes the space inside his cranium and the band plays chiming symphonies for the luckiest of ears only, namely his two.

Someone mixed his all blood cells with tiny cymbals and put a lonely cellist in his center; producing tones inseparable from those of a human voice box. It’s curious how infatuation takes physical form, beyond the mental sorcery. It might have started as a seed in the white matter but it has budded through all gyri and sulci in winding trails to his limbs, through and through to the finger tips. Maybe this is what the body awareness/mindfulness-crowd at school is after; if so he knows a shortcut to enlightenment. Bang Romeo. But don’t.

Maybe the animated character he used to host is departing, making room for a new one. A quiet one; peaceful, even. The thought is foreign but his present disposition says otherwise.

Even more curious is how he could declare his blessing if someone gave him a megaphone. Loud enough to turn heads and scare birds, echoing from Sacre-Coeur to Les Catacombes. He pins the fact that he doesn’t tell people, not even in normal speaking voice, on rational motive. He just needs a window of opportunity. How could anyone possibly understand, anyway? They might have done things; felt things, but surely it was nothing like this.

He listens to Daphne, Emma and Manon discussing Romeo and Juliet. They are the only ones whose company he can manage and likely the only ones who can manage him; they accept him like an odd piece of furniture. Energy restored, he will do Mercutio even more justice. Auguste’s omniform interpretation is still faithful to the hearts of the characters; Mercutio is jovial as ever and the deeper the connection with Romeo, the more he lives.

“Mercutio’s love for Romeo goes beyond kinship. It’s his origins; his earth, it built him before he was put together. In a way, his personality is catalyzed in relation to Romeo,” had been the exact words of Auguste, which Lucas at the time had had felt was a bit much but at this point he is willing to believe pretty much anything. He had pretended to get it. He knows how to appear responsive to choreography, even when the choreographer is lost in the transition between idea and application. He gets there somehow, he always does. This time, he hadn’t imagined the route exactly like this, but it sure got him there; body moving and possessed, mouth gaping, everything in ignition.

“Romeo is more than lovelorn, he is destructive. The patron saint of the heartbroken. The original script relates to life and death, even in the dawn of a new love. Life is unforgiving. When he kills himself, it’s because he has lost everything; he is nothing without love.” When Auguste had spoken next, Lucas had been watching Eliott sidelong, paying more attention to simulating nonchalance than to the description of Romeo. He almost wants to laugh at how innocent he had been; only grasping they would act as abstract lovers with everything left to interpretation, knowing nothing of Eliott’s inside. Mind, and otherwise.

Still, in so many ways, Eliott is a stranger. Everything has been fast-forwarded and Lucas has entered the maze, without clue or map. He is his tender enigma to unravel.

“Let’s go with pasta. Load up on carbs.”

“Got plenty of carbs right here,” Lucas says and slaps his belly.

“You’re a skeleton.”

“Leave him alone, he is getting better,” Manon says and puts a hand on his. “I guess you’re the one who stole my comfort Oreos?”

“I’m sorry, it was a rushed decision. Low blood sugar.”

“Low blood sugar-decisions. I forgive all those.”

 

Wednesday March 5. 18:31

_l’École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris_ // secret little project

 

“Come on. Five more.” Yann puts his finger under the bar of weights and waits for Lucas to push up. He grimaces between repetitions. _Spaghetti arms_. Dropping the bar on the rack with a rattling noise, he sits up and grabs at his shoulders. “Fuck. Ouch.” He gets up and prepares to spot Yann.“ _Allez_ , last set.”

“Where were you this weekend?” asks Yann, when they have retired to stretching. “I called you. And you know who called me?” he continues when Lucas hesitates. “Chloé.”

There is positively no legitimate way to explain a whole weekend of absence from all forms of communication. Lucas keeps quiet long enough for Yann to prompt him. “Yo?”

“What did she want?”

“Same as I. To know where the fuck you were.”

“What did you say?”

Yann shrugs. “I can’t even remember. That I didn’t know.” After another moment of unresponsiveness from Lucas, Yann gives up and starts his flexibility routine.

Choosing the middle way - mostly due to lack of other resorts, but he tells himself it is avant-garde courage on his behalf - Lucas clears his throat and confesses. “I met someone else.”

Yann snaps around and looks at him. “Really?”

Lucas nods. “Really.”

“Who?”

_Right._ Of course he’d want to know. In paralyzed indecision, Lucas taps into denial and considers making up a name, possibly a female one, but decides against it.

“It’s complicated.”

“Original name. Pretty, though.”

Lucas quietens again, wishing someone could put the right words in his mouth. There are just too many loose ends for Lucas to tie them all together and tell it like it is. “It’s new. I don’t want anyone to know,” he manages. It doesn’t explain anything and Yann looks skeptical. “Thanks for covering for me.”

“I didn’t cover for you. I would have, if I’d known I had to.”

The white polished door to the gym swings open and saves Lucas, and Yann, from further ambivalence. Arthur enters with Niels in tow.

“Don’t work yourselves too hard, boys. Two shows next weekend and plenty of rehearsal before then,” Niels comments on their exhausted appearance while looking around the room. “Remember your COP; activity, recovery-”

“Promiscuity,” Arthur interjects. Niels stops on his way out and gives him a tired look. “Nutrition and hydration. I’m looking for Auguste, have you seen him?” Nobody has. “He’s late for principal rehearsal,” Niels adds before exiting the gym.

Arthur puts his bag down on the floor next to them. “You’re also late,” Lucas comments.

“We said six thirty.”

“We said five thirty,” Yann says, but Lucas terminates his involvement in their conversation as a familiar silhouette walks by outside the gym. It passes by one window and then a few seconds later the next; redundant for Lucas to identify Eliott even though the hood of his jacket covers his hair and his face is tilted up; mouth to a water bottle. He might as well have been inflicted with the blast from a gunshot, the vivifying; smoldering kind, to the diaphragm when Eliott turns his head and looks into the gym. When he catches sight of Lucas, he reacts by slowing down, eventually coming to a stop by the third window. He leans on his elbows against the window frame and smirks; luring the corners of Lucas’ mouth to turn upward. Eliott stares him into the wall where he’s reclining for a moment; long enough for Lucas’ body to remember all of the things they did last time and for physical consequences to arise. Then he winks and is gone, just as quickly as he appeared.

“What are you grinning at, dork?” Arthur says and follows Lucas gaze.    

It had been so short that the whole thing could have been an artifact of his imagination, but his body is pretty sure it was real. So very real. “Nothing.”

Arthur and Yann talk but Lucas can’t seem to catch a break from the effects of that impromptu almost-rendezvous and sits quiet; stretching distractedly until his phone dings.     

_I’m alone up here_ , Eliott writes with an accompanying photo of himself in an empty studio. Lucas doesn’t even really need to deliberate; he takes the queue like he’d been doing nothing else his whole life and gets up.

“I’ve gotta go.” It’s more of a statement than an explanation.  Someone says _Okay_ behind him.

He pauses by the rectangular window next to the studio door when he gets up the two flights of stairs. Occupied with a well-practiced stretching procedure, Eliott doesn’t notice his spectator. He wears a black warm-up overall with suspenders strapped over bare shoulders. He is methodical but slightly rushed, working through his back in a circular _port de bras_ around his own axis. Lucas adores the arch of his back and the long diagonal from his hip to his fingertip. His lines start in the studio but end somewhere in outer space. He proceeds with simple _tendus_ but is unhappy with something he feels in his right foot; pulls it up and starts massaging it. He returns to _port de bras devant_ ; resting his hands on the floor and _pliées_ , but abandons it abruptly and consults with his phone for an instant. He doesn’t return to the barre, but loses himself in thought. His gaze wanders around the room through the mirror; from himself to the grand piano and to the window in the upper right corner. There’s a little trickle of innocent silence that emanates from his eyes; the rare glimpse of a child’s spirit with no trace of cynicism or self-awareness, provoking paternal instincts in Lucas that he didn’t know he had. A young boy with nothing to lose and nothing to win; unspoiled with wrinkled cotton clothes. Maybe he was playing alone in the sand with pastel blue winds twirling around him; maybe he got so deeply immersed in his game that he lost track of his parents, but he’s too trusting to be scared as he faces the endless stretches of beige dunes alone. Lucas chooses the moment when Eliott sinks down on the floor with his back against the mirror to enter the room. Not until then does he consider his own appearance; holed, washed-out t-shirt, shorts and socks but it will have to do. He combs his fingers through his hair habitually, _better_. He tries to leave his rush behind by walking slowly, but still manages to skid a little before closing the door behind him.

Except for Eliott saying _Salut_ with gentle expectation, the studio is the kind of quiet that one rarely experiences. Things could be said but the words wait for them; they bow and open an alleyway for Lucas when he approaches the only one he’s too shy to look at but never can avert his eyes from. _Spaghetti legs._

“Did you get all strong?” Eliott finally says when he draws closer.

“As a bull,” Lucas says and flexes his biceps. Eliott snickers and stands up, shooting up tall in front of him. Grabbing Lucas’ right hand in his both, he tugs once and makes him inch closer. “What are you going to do up here?” asks Lucas.

Standing closer than any conversation requires, Eliott eyes the holes on the side of his t-shirt and reaches out to play with one of them carefully. “Auguste is late. I thought I’d devote some time to something else,” he says and pushes a finger in, rubbing it against Lucas’ stomach and pulls a little at the fabric. “My secret little project,” he adds.

“Most people just call me Lucas.”

Eliott huffs a giggle and searches his mouth with his eyes, inflicting an instant amorous zing in Lucas gut. He hesitates, scared of his own inability to regulate how far to take things and not just try to have sex with him at any given chance. _But maybe just a little bit._ And Eliott breaks the kiss after just a beat, speaking quietly.

 “You’re not a secret. But you are little,” he says and prods his stomach.

“Isn’t that what you meant when you said you were alone?”

“I wanted you in private. It’s different.”

Eliott’s lips are relaxed and plump against his, making the kiss ripe and full, but it does so little for Lucas self-control.  Eliott backs him into the mirror; he doesn’t care. Lucas is mildly uncomfortable when he rests his face against his neck and sniffs him, which surely must be reminiscent of the school gym. Eliott doesn’t care about that, either, and parts his lips against his skin and suckles.

Lucas quickly scrabbles for plans. “When do you finish?” Eliott responds by pistoning a leg in between his thighs and gives a little thrust of his hips into him, smiling against his throat when he hisses. “Don’t do that.”

“What; this?” he says and grabs Lucas side and does it again. 

“Stop.” Lucas grabs his chin. “Or there’s no stopping it.”

Grinning quietly into each other’s mouths, they share another five hot, secret seconds with Lucas pressed against the glass before Eliott gives up with a last peck on his lips. “I finish at nine,” he says while backing away.

Shortly after, Auguste hurries in with Ivan and props personnel a step behind him; a caravan of hanging scarves, flapping papers and technical equipment. Sweaty and cursing, Auguste excuses himself. “Call me an environmentalist, but I still use public transportation. I should clearly stop.” He doesn’t seem to notice Lucas until he starts riffling through his binder. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he states.

Lucas can’t think of anything to add, except his acknowledgement. “No.”

“But here you are. Can you join in? Your variation needs some love and I have a few other ideas as well. Our original schedule is screwed anyway, thanks to Parisian infrastructure.”

Mercutio’s solo is a hurricane of jumping, turning, running; even hand-standing. Although his legs insist he should, it’s not like he can decline. “Sure.”

“Good. You stick around and watch, first, okay?” Auguste directs to Eliott.

“Gladly.”

“Well, aren’t you two agreeable. Let’s start.”

Auguste marks as his opponent in the battle; a venomous clash with only physical contact until Romeo’s catastrophic intervention and Tybalt pulls his knife. Lucas is exhausted after his solo, thinking Mercutio should tell Romeo to fight his own battles and go home, instead of using the occasion  to blow the horn of his love for Romeo and as an outlet for his hatred of Tybalt.

“Warm up. Don’t just stare,” Auguste tells Eliott twenty minutes into the ordeal. Eliott blinks and puts one leg over the other; pulling the knee into his chest. Glutes, Lucas notices. “Your body; your whole energy screams predator but remember to save that up until the confrontation. Until then you’re carefree, drunk; an idiot playing with Romeo.” It should go into his CV.  “We want that shift in energy to be clear; everything is amazing and then horrible. Mercutio transforms when something threatens what he holds dear.”

Auguste involves Eliott; letting him take place in front of Lucas to stop him from attacking Juliet’s cousin. Impulsively, he dribbles Eliott by jerking to the left and then tries to go past him on the right; making Eliott laugh and Auguste complain. “You’re not playing tag,” he says when Eliott grasps after Lucas’ arm.

“Sorry, wait,” Eliott says and searches the floor for concentration. Then he steadies his gaze on Lucas who still feels like an excited kid, blaming Eliott’s childlike laughter. Lucas can do whatever because everything will be alright in the end anyway. Eliott jabs a finger into his stomach, flicking it into his belly button and hisses; _try to be professional_.

“Try to go fuck yourself.”

“Ready?” Auguste interrupts. And Lucas has to grapple with Eliott, trying to push past him with insistence. At one point he nearly gets annoyed with the way Eliott is blocking him, grunting _Fuck off_ when he shoves him back. Eliott just focuses on him, grabs him anywhere he can reach, tearing one of the holes in his shirt bigger in the process. It’s difficult to fight nonverbally, because that’s what it turns into. Eliott tries to grab his head to steady him or slap him; he remains quiet but determined while they stagger around, straining for dominance.

When he is stabbed, he has to still. It’s so easy to fall into one another when the fight drains; letting Eliott fold over him like a drooping flower burying a friend in the soil. Feeling like he really nails something, Lucas keeps in character until Eliott comes too close to his ear and says _Gonna try to fuck you, instead_.

Auguste yells “Don’t laugh!” and signals to tech to stop the music by a raised finger.

“I wasn’t laughing,” Lucas objects and gets up on his elbows. Eliott stays on all fours over him, awaiting instructions.

“A clear distinction; he is not having fun anymore. Scratch all comic ideas that the original story might have given you” Auguste says walking up to them.

Lucas starts to feel a tad weird lying under Eliott, watched and talked to by Auguste, but pretends it’s _comme il faut_.

“You’re dying, try to remember that.”

Eliott looks down at him while Auguste talks; he feels the chemistry of his kiss and tastes the manipulation of his eyes on his skin. Probing, inspecting, caressing. Auguste gives Eliott a suspicious glare before queuing the music and moving away. Rehearsals are going to be demanding.

When the janitor knocks ten past nine and announces the school is closing, Auguste appears personally victimized by it. Lucas is personally relieved and picks up a similar vibe from Eliott. He disappears towards the residence after a stolen moment behind the studio door; hands into Lucas’ clothes and a kiss to his knuckles, with a promise to see you later.

 


	18. Grand Allegro 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roses are red, violets are blue, [...] (finish quote as you see fit).
> 
> I don't know how to write chapter summaries, I really don't. Oh, but a heads down for smut (pun intended).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Come talk to me on[tumblr](evestrand.tumblr.com)** ♥️
> 
> ________________________________________________________________________________________________________
> 
> My endless gratitude to my beta, Roki. You're a gem ♥️ Also sometimes I change things after she has read it so errors are entirely on me.
> 
> While I do have knowledge and experience of ballet and being a student at a classical dance school, some things have been altered to a less realistic respresentation for the purpose of creating an appealing story.
> 
> Note that Lucas' thoughts, chat conversation and various French phrases and words are written in italics. I realize it may cause confusion, but I hope it won't. Don't hesitate to ask me if questions arise ♥️
> 
> I love your comments ♥️ 
> 
> Written with utmost respect for the creators and characters of the original work.

Wednesday March 6. 23.22

 _The Bar_ // Capulets and Montagues

Muscles hurting in the good, endorphin-diffusing way, Lucas sits on a chair higher than everyone else’s. He drinks a little bit excessively, but it’s a soul-fortifier and softens the roiling in his gut. He could never handle straws as a child and he still can’t; just empties his glass before even realizing it.

“Just mix sugar and salt and you’re good. That’s what I always do.”

Yann is not convinced. “Only sugar and salt?”

“Yeah. It’s what your body needs to recover.” Arthur slaps Lucas on the shoulder. “I made it for you once. It worked, didn’t it?”

Lucas nods and says _Cool_ because that should be a good response to whatever Arthur had said.

“Wait- you eat it with, like, a spoon? Or what?”

Arthur’s eyebrows draw together. “A spoon? What- you drink it!”

Yann still isn't on board. “ _How_?”

“With your fucking mouth, that’s how!”

“It’s a liquid. There’s water in it, as well,” Lucas explains, eyes diverging from the door to his company.

“Oh. You said only sugar and salt,” says Yann.

Arthur clinks his glass to Lucas’. “Look, it talks!”

The bar is heavy of smoke and malfunctioning multicolored spotlights; full of animated faces, intoxicated eyes and hopeful hearts. Eliott said he would come and when he does, it’s still fascinating. Over the course of the last hour and five minutes Lucas has grown irritated with other people’s lacking ability of being Eliott. Especially those he momentarily could confuse with him. Momentarily. The dip and jump in his belly, each time the door opened was hard to recover from. Apart from the moving mass of faces he doesn’t know, there are two other groups of students from their school at the bar; this is where they go. Or, end up, is closer to the truth. Everyone is forgiven, now.

Eliott arrives with the usual naïve aura and unconventional beauty that is his trademark. He wears a snapback and Lucas wants to fling it off by his hand, brutally, and comb his fingers through the dirty blond hair that unfolds in rich billows under the front brim. But he doesn’t even know how to touch him, here. When Eliott finds him, he excuses himself and meets him in the crowd; he needs a moment away from familiar eyes and ears. They don’t cheek kiss because it’s too impersonal, it would take them back to polite acquaintance.

He asks Eliott how he is and he shrugs and says he is sore; but doesn’t complain. He’s not a complainer. Eliott looks him over and says “Wanna have a drink?” When Lucas nods he grabs him by the hand and pulls him with. He feels courted by Eliott and it is radically different from what he is used to, almost like he isn’t automatically required to do anything. Existing is enough. And Eliott will climb his balcony, buy him a drink, cup his face and hold his hand. And take off his clothes; all of them.

Sidling up next to him by the bar, Lucas looks at the menu but the largest portion of his attention is eaten by the press of their adjoining sides. Especially, when Eliott moves his knee slightly and rubs it at the back of Lucas’ leg after placing his order.

Having abandoned his friends, Lucas sees Yann watching them like he’s trying to solve a riddle in hieroglyphics.

“How are you, then,” Eliott asks after trying his drink, looking like he wants a kiss but is too realistic to go for it.

“Okay. Better, now.”  

Eliott inches just a little bit closer. “Drunk?”

“ _Enivré_ ,” Lucas says, unable to resist the double entendre.

“Have some more.” Eliott turns to him and puts his drink to his mouth. He watches him sip it and Lucas tries really hard to remember why they are here and not alone, naked, pushing and pulling. It had been him inviting Eliott to join him and his friends here, nervous to be seen with him but thinking that if he only set it up, maybe universe would work out the details. Right now, the universe lets Eliott feed him his cocktail and eye-fuck him within an inch of his life; obviously the stars are aligned, although maybe lacking in subtlety. The warmth of his thigh disappears when Arthur’s voice comes through from behind them. He greets Eliott and says to _come hang out there_ , pointing toward their table.

Lucas goes to the bathroom. He sort of feels he can relax; too tipsy to be nervous and too happy to care. Rubbing his hands together under the feeble stream of air from the dryer, he wonders if this is it. Is it now that they’ll know?

When he returns to the noise and commotion, Chloé has arrived. Again, he is amazed with how he’s repressed her existence. But she’s alive and kicking and five meters away. Impulsively, he grabs his vodka lemon and makes a beeline for the door without a second glance around, searching Eliott out by a table outside; smoking. He makes out with him next to the terrace, shielded from eyes and the rain by a large neon sign blazing the name of the bar. Eliott searched out their hiding place with sly enthusiasm, backing himself into the wall with Lucas stumbling on his toes. He opens his mouth to Lucas’, wetly and pliantly surging and receding against him. Three days is an eternity, everything that is not happening now is a violation and any distance longer than this is cruel. A song that is too romantic for his taste plays from inside but it almost, just almost, makes him forget about the napalm sky of Chloé threatening to light up the bar.

“Hi,” says Lucas and touches Eliott’s face.

He responds by eyeing his mouth and coming after it again, sucking on his lips. “You taste like citrus,” he says. Then he finds Lucas’ belt loops and pulls at them, bringing them sharply together; thighs to tongue. “I wanna get on top of you.”

It nearly makes Lucas hail a taxi on the spot, before he breathes a _Yeah?_

Eliott nuzzles the little area connecting his cheek bone and ear. “A lot.”

The hand to his back that lingers just a few seconds after entering - people might see it just as much as he feels it. The need for a megaphone for word to spread seems to lessen by the minute. He’s surprised by his indifference. Maybe that’s what twenty minutes of fuck-like grinding with Eliott Demaury does to you; you already won. _Yea, go ahead and look. Look at the feeling you’ll never know; right here. Imagine it, dream it, delude yourself. Eliott drilling his dick into your groin in maddening rolls and his tongue in your mouth; to confess your need and his voice in your ear saying I want you so fucking bad_.

If it wasn’t for the, however in Eliott’s presence slowly withering, barricade of insecurity, Lucas would turn around and look. Focus on his face and take his hand with grand Shakespearian romance. 

Entering the bar, Eliott stumbles into him from behind and giggles an apology.

“Wanna ride my back? Getty-up!” Lucas quips and offers his backside. Eliott laughs and pushes at his head.

“Your front,” he says, into Lucas’ hair. The concept of Eliott fucking riding him hits home with a loud fanfare, almost making him stop in his tracks. When he does moments later, it’s because Chloé talks.

“You can’t avoid me forever.” He didn’t even seen her, approaching from their left. When she faces him, Eliott’s hand withdraws and he walks past them, disappearing into the crowd.

She doesn’t need to tell him she’s sick and tired, he already knows that. She goes straight for the blow, saying “I saw you running away, like a rat, when I came. You treat me like shit.” He tries to find Eliott’s back in the crowd, but it’s impossible to monitor them both; silencing Chloé and keeping track of Eliott. She boils when he doesn’t look at her. “What’s your problem?”

Her voice has the high frequency sinus curve of a tone generator and it stresses him. He tries to hush her by a hand to her arm. “Wait, can you lower your voice?” He considers bringing her outside, but the manner in which Eliott vanished gives him the feeling that idea won’t fly with him.

Chloé pulls her arm from him and he looks around resignedly. “Just wait. Let’s go over there,” he points to an empty group of chairs next to an overcrowded bookshelf. Like anyone ever came here to read.

“So,” Lucas says when they sit. He probably never felt such contempt oozing from someone simply from their posture and stare.

“I’m not the one with the problem. You are – you talk, Chloé snaps, although it inarguably seems like she does have an acute problem. “Just one text. One little word from you would have been enough.”

While he doubts that, he still needs to apologize. He recognizes that what he has engaged in on Chloé’s expense classifies as dirty and deceptive, but when he hears himself say _I’m sorry_ it doesn’t sound sincere. He isn’t sorry. Not really. The lack of emotion makes him feel inhuman and search for it inside. He finds Eliott across the room, beer in hand with a group of people. Maybe admirers. Hyenas, he decides as his eyes linger. He can’t help the way he looks. _He doesn’t even get it, does he?_ Eliott sees him, too; he studies them both like a scientist looking at an abnormality in the otherwise smooth stream of data. It debunks his founding hypothesis; turning over what he believed to be true.

“It’s torture!”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“No, you don’t. And you’re not. You’re a fucking child.”

Chloé is hurt. She has nothing to do with this; she is an extra who didn’t ask to be part of the dramatic plot development. She only ever asked for him. The compassion he feels towards her right then is much like how you’d feel bad about an unhappy kid on a fully booked flight. Concerned, but happy it’s not yours. “I know I fucked up. But can we please talk about this another time?” He tries to beckon her sympathy by patting her hand.

She ignores his plea in favor of the million dollar question. “Is it someone else?”

He hesitates and she stares like she’s paralyzed in what, he suspects, is a mirror image of himself. Chloé is confused, legitimately so, when Eliott makes a graceful entrance into their conversation and sits back next to Lucas.

“ _Salut_ , Capulet,” he says and puts his arm on the back of the sofa.

“Hey.” She is quiet, waiting to be presented with the reason for him being there, until the silence forces her to speak. “What’s going on?”

“Not much. You?”

Lucas looks at Eliott but quickly decides to only look at the table; he doesn’t have a death wish and what he sees in Eliott might accidentally, or intentionally, kill him.  He cringes from the tension, he wants to wrap it up and leave with Eliott on his back. Or front.

“We were kind of in the middle of something. Maybe you could give us a minute?” says Chloé.

Eliott leans forward and puts his elbows on the table. “I couldn’t, in fact.”

“Okay?” Chloé awaits Lucas intervention but he doesn’t want to; it’ll cause grief whatever he says.

“Okay,” Eliott smiles with poisonous politeness, making her laugh in disbelief.

“Are you for real?”

“As real as it gets.”

Her eyes at Lucas seem to say _what the fuck is this_ , but his only answer would have been _This, is someone else_. After a moment of hesitation, she gives up. “Whatever. See you later.”

“Later, much later,” Eliott says to her back to which she replies with a raised middle finger. They sit next to each other like two lost souls waiting for a bus that never comes; Lucas looking back and forth between the table and Eliott. That didn’t get out of hand, it ran like a horse on speed.

“She’s gonna come after me for that, you can bet your ass,” he says weakly.

Eliott takes a sip of his beer, moves and gets up. “Pity,” is all he says before he leaves him too.

Everything is amazing; then shit, or whatever Auguste said.  

*

Nothing about Eliott’s expression, neither bodily nor verbal, encourages interaction. He is far although just across the room. Lucas reluctantly joins his friends again, who have moved to the bar, engaging in shots and loud banter which he easily blends into. At first, he is pissed. Furious to be rejected and about how Eliott makes people’s heads turn. He knew about that but he can’t stand the spectacle. What were animated faces and eyes have been distorted to gaping, insinuating holes, loud laughter and ingratiating flatter. It’s infuriating to be a bystander, with wrongly assumed rights that nobody cares about. As minutes go by, the anger abates and leaves him with a needy, distressed longing, spurred on by a shot of rum that yells _Come back!_ in his head. And then, _Back off_ , when a girl that he doesn’t know stands too close to Eliott. He used to be a firm believer in waiting flaring tempers out, giving things time to solve themselves, but he suddenly lacks self-possession.

Arthur, who probably wouldn’t even notice if trouble slapped him in the face based on the state he is in, stops Eliott when he’s on his way past them. “Eliott, come have a shot!” he shouts over the noise and pushes the leftover glass in Eliott’s direction. “Basile can’t count.”

Eliott sinks down on the edge of a bar stool next to Yann after some indecision, likely more out of politeness than anything else. “I’m not that difficult,” he says with a smirk. Lucas raises his glass; desperately searching wordless contact. Eliott’s magnetism is excruciating when he downs the rum. It does what it wants with Lucas, he is a helpless minus pool to Eliott’s plus. Yann asks Eliott if he’s nervous about the final performances; it’s commonly known that the artistic team of Palais Garnier and international guests will attend the last of them. Lucas loses track of what they say, watching Eliott play with his glass. _Fuck this, fuck all of it._

He steps over and nestles in between the chairs. “Can we leave?”

“Where do you wanna go?” Eliott asks.  

Sensing attention shifting towards them, he perseveres. “Home.” He fishes up Eliott’s hand from the back of his chair carefully and moves out from the table. _Whatever people think; let them._ Lucas backs out; eyes on Eliott’s face as he leads him away from the table, until he reaches the door and the night outside.

 

Thursday March 7. 01.25

 _The apartment_  // i love you x 2

The street below the apartment is dead. Lucas watches a lonely cyclist wobble across the sidewalk, wondering if he’ll manage to get both himself and the bicycle home in one go. Eliott sits on a chair behind him, smoking quietly, busying himself with stargazing. The silence seems to widen and stretch between them.

When Eliott speaks, he says; “You didn’t tell her anything, did you?”

Lucas is quiet. He sincerely doubts he’s going to have to spell it out for her after tonight. Eliott gives him one look, and then returns to the stars. He shakes his head. “You’re never going to do it.”

“It’s only been a week,” Lucas reminds him. It’s a truth with modification.

Eliott doesn’t even bother mentioning that Lucas barely allowed twenty-four hours between his little leap of faith to his apartment and demanding answers. “I waited too long once,” he says. He doesn’t seem to reflect on that Lucas knows who that waiting refers to, and he doesn’t appreciate the comparison.

When he looks back at the street, the cyclist is gone. “You don’t get it,” Lucas says, trying to deflect jealousy. When he turns around, Eliott has pulled himself into a ball on the chair, hugging his knees. Lucas vaguely understands that he must be scarred, maybe more so than he had thought.

“Maybe I don’t,” Eliott says and blows smoke in Lucas’ direction. “I don’t know what this is to you, but … I can’t see you together,” he continues, gazing at the sky. “Like tonight. It’s not good.”

Realizing he has hurt him, Lucas is struck by crippling regret. At first, Eliott is too affected when he puts his hands on his knees, bends down and kisses him. He breaks off but keeps his head pressed to his. Lucas watches him breathe; eyes colored by emotion. He evokes the image of an anguished animal, trying to hide.

“I’m sorry. Come here,” he says and meant closer, to kiss it better, but he ends up taking him all the way back to the living room. Eliott is unenthusiastic but lets Lucas have his way.

Lucas lingers by the balcony door, watching Eliott sit down in the sofa and start to roll another cigarette compulsively. He isn’t convinced; Lucas can tell. He still doesn’t know what he has done to him. He still doesn’t know what he is to him. That he’s the kind of protected flower you see once, that you’re not supposed to pick but you can’t help yourself. Wild, beautiful, difficult to find and impossible to forget. Eliott closed-off is unbearable; it hurts Lucas more than exposing himself ever could. So he blurts everything out, without preparation.

“I admit that I’ve been careless. But it means nothing, all that,” he says with an imprecise gesture in what he thinks is the direction of the bar. “The only one I care about is you. I never felt like this before, like I do for you. Ever.” Eliott stills his hands. “Can’t you feel that?” Lucas asks, approaching him. Maybe he has found someone who needs to be taken under wing just as much as he needs it himself.

Eliott abandons the cigarette and puts his hand behind Lucas knee, steering him onto himself. A little light is back, as Lucas folds his legs on each side of his and sits. He smiles at Eliott’s flattened hair and tousles it when he finally gets to push his fingers under his cap. Eliott plays with Lucas hand for a moment, before putting his own to his cheek. He leans in but backs away when Lucas comes for his mouth; making him chase his lips like a hungry bird. “If you never felt like this, you break up with her. Tell her,” he says, eyes shining.

“We’re not really together.”

“Tell her.”

His words aren’t going to matter, Lucas gets that much. It needs to happen, like Eliott already had assumed it had. He puts his arms around him and battles mixed emotions privately. Eliott never asked for it and he seems to have failed either way, but he still wants to protect him.

Lucas plants a long kiss in his hair and draws him into his lungs like oxygen for a few calm breaths, until Eliott grabs his chin and tilts him into his mouth. He presses his lips to Lucas’, keeping so still, and reaches around his back. The tension seeps out of Eliott, slowly but surely until he nibbles back; first playfully and then hungrily. At long last, it’s just them. Only Eliott and he could do him for hours, drowning against his moist tongue, spread out over his thighs. “Baby,” Lucas says and feels Eliott’s lips spread into a grin against his. Starved for him after what felt frighteningly close to being robbed, Lucas wants to devour him heartily but tries to be gentle. It works until Eliott starts running his hands over his back and breathe differently. It kicks his system into gear and he drives himself down and forward, into him.

The skin on his neck is smooth, except around the jaw, and its taste is starting to map out as _Eliott_ in his brain. The mechanism of taste association is breathtaking in its intimacy. Still, Lucas wants more; to expand that area that is Eliott’s designated inside him. He moves to his Adam’s apple, that constricts when he swallows and vibrates when he moans from Lucas’ mouth making it wet. Eliott isn’t still anymore; he sinks down further down in the sofa and adjusts Lucas on top of him until he’s satisfied, sitting wide legged and free to run his hands from his legs to his shoulder blades.

He must have been nursing this fantasy long before he became aware of it and only now it materializes into a man, unlike all other. Just like Eliott needs action, Lucas needs him and to show him just that - how explicitly close he desires him.  Lucas mutters an apology when he pushes Eliott’s head into the wall, putting his hand behind it as shield. Eliott doesn’t miss a beat, but keeps kissing him with a hand to his cheek while popping open the top button of Lucas’ jeans.

Stumbling, Lucas puts one foot to the floor and balances, removing himself from Eliott’s frame. “Where you going?” he protests into his mouth while Lucas sinks down, hanging on to it until he pushes his legs further apart and kneels.

He rolls Eliott’s t-shirt up into his armpits, wanting to see the shape and outline of his muscle all the way. He lowers his lips to the pale expanse of skin and kisses it, fingertips following his mouth.

Eliott stares with quiet approval when Lucas opens his zipper, slightly rushed by nervousness. He has to rise up to reach inside, looking at Eliott while stroking him carefully through his underwear. Having Eliott passively waiting for his moves, giving breathy responses to his touch, incites a macho thrill and strong sense of influence; he balances back and forth between that and beginner’s anxiety.

Eliott smooths his hair back, over and over, while he puts his mouth to the fabric, kissing him open-mouthed from base to tip. “Never done this before,” Lucas says.

Eliott watches him with calm expectation; he knows what is about to happen but is there for the unraveling of something he’s never seen before. “I know,” he says and rubs his thumbs into Lucas’ chin and then, “You don’t have to,” to which Lucas just responds with a grin, because _yes, he has to._ Catching one of his thumbs, Lucas places a kiss on it before curling his fingers around the waist band of his underwear and pulls, yielding to his need to bury his face in his groin; to smell and taste him.

However it’s not without hesitation that he looks at his dick. It juts out like a thick tower from his body, naked and scalding-hot. The vision is slightly jarring. Lucas never saw any erect dick but his own, outside of shamefully indulged porn. Thinking about that Eliott must have seen a lot of things makes him jealous, but also impossibly more attracted to him. And his only desire is Eliott’s, he wants so badly to make it good. He pulls the foreskin all the way back and strokes him slowly, while putting his mouth back to his stomach. Eliott gives a small thrusting motion and a low moan slips out of him when he swallows as Lucas’ wet trail of kisses nears his dick. The closer he gets, the more personal the taste.

Self-aware but dying to please him, Lucas follows his instincts and puts his mouth to it, to that vein running along it, like a river of life and sensation. He puts all the slow burn that has been accumulating into his tongue, sweeping it along to the tip of his dick; gratified when Eliott’s breathing hitches and his head tips against the back rest of the sofa. His tongue can elicit pleasure, he knows that from before. So he uses it for careful worshipping, lapping it slowly up his cock until precome trickles down. It’s shocking. Making Eliott’s cock drip has his mind derailing; he can’t think straight, just look up at him in silent awe.

Eliott isn’t pushing, but there’s an inclination in his hand on Lucas neck each time he moves up his length; he wants to get into his mouth, urgently. His face is different, an animalistic surveillance shades it. Lucas likes that. He rewards him by parting his lips, letting the tip of his cock slide in between them.

Eliott inhales and whimpers, closing his eyes just to immediately open them again.  Hearing his silent prayer; kiss, tongue, suck it, Lucas delicately sinks it deeper into his mouth until he can’t go further. Manly, sweet, tangy, there are no adequate words for how Eliott tastes but he’ll make them up if he needs to. His head slipping against Lucas’ tongue imprints his flavor so deep it will probably never wear off.

Eliott waits for him; his breathing is shallow but he keeps absolutely still while absorbedly staring down at Lucas, as if willing him to move. Understanding that he can set the pace, Lucas goes about it slowly.

The more you know, the more you realize you know nothing; it’s vastly different than he’d imagined. A blunt, silky, sensitive lollipop with a life of its own in his mouth. He surrenders to the feeling of being submissive while climbing to dominance, increasingly suspecting he could have Eliott promising him the world from the way he behaves. Staying still shortly proves too challenging; he pushes his head back into the cushion and Lucas feels the muscles in his thighs work spasmodically.

If he has any skill, he is unaware of it. He only does what comes natural to him. Be it orally or emotionally bound, it’s all the same; an all-consuming need and abundance. Loving Eliott.  _You’re going to say it, you’re going to say it, say it_ , his brain tells him and he’s happy his mouth is full. _Early, way early_. He must be doing something right, though, because Eliott is getting restless and verbal in front of him. “Oh, Lucas,” he gasps. Opening his eyes, he watches Lucas slide his lips over his cock unhurriedly. “ _J’adore._ ” He puts his hands on Lucas’ head, going all over his cheeks and neck, like he can’t make up his mind about what to touch and how to anchor himself.

When Eliott drives his hand into his hair Lucas stills. Because after all, he wants to be taught. Chasing away jealousy from the fragment of a notion of who taught Eliott, he moves when Eliott inflicts pressure, just barely palpable, to his scalp.

Part of the same organism working Eliott in symbiosis to cosmic bliss, he lets himself be guided down on him, over and over, taking him in deeper. Saliva dribbles down his knuckles and onto Eliott; it’s pagan, carnal and dirty and he’s weak for it. The worrying he has been doing, what if he won’t like it, seems ludicrous. He likes it, the way he likes hot chocolate with whipped cream. Too much.

He never got hard from going down on a girl. That was something that happened later. Or that didn’t happen later, a few times. On his knees with his hair in his eyes, bent over Eliott’s spread-eagled, restless and intent form, Lucas fills out his underwear to the point where the seam of his jeans cuts into his dick, wondering if it’s normal.

Eliott reaches down, pulling up his t-shirt roughly. Lucas leaves him momentarily and Eliott grins when he pulls it over his head. They stare at each other for a moment, before Lucas bows down and swathes him in his mouth again. Speeding up just so, it changes the tension in the body underneath him. Eliott’s chest start to heave and Lucas adores the way he moans. Unassuming and unsure of how far he’d be able to take him, he isn’t sure what’s happening when Eliott pants until he starts stuttering. Eliott grabs both of his shoulders, his head and finally puts his palms to his forehead when he doesn’t let up, effectively stopping his movements.

“Lucas, Lucas.”

“What?” he says, mouthing at his dick, eliciting a groan.

“Stop. I’m really fucking close.”

Lucas pushes at Eliott’s hands. “Off,” he grumbles. “I want you. All of you.”

He barely has time to get him all the way into his mouth before Eliott’s face contorts and he bites his lip against whiny moans, loud enough for Lucas to expect Mika to fully gag them himself next time. A deep pulse runs through his dick and then Eliott loses it above him, grabbing the hair on the back of his head and thrusts into his mouth, groaning _Fuck Lucas, ahh fuck_ , coming undone in his hands and mouth. Eliott is even more beautiful in rapture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:
> 
> enivré - drunk, intoxicated (with drug or person, for example)


	19. Grand Allegro 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nei, Vilde.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A note from your author!** So, we left Lucas and Eliott rather abruptly last week. Mid-love. I wasn't super happy about that but I couldn't figure out where to cut the chapter otherwise, anywhere else seemed equally abrupt. Maybe you already thought about it already, or not, but either way, since I didn't write this story for the fanfiction forum originally, like with weekly updates and such - I didn't intend to post it anywhere at first - the chapter disposition can feel a bit ...weird. I'm aware but at the same time I don't want to add more text just for the sake of that. The only times I like adding text is when there's more story to tell :) Either way, I'd need more time. But I also don't want to cause too much confusion obviously. So I'll try writing a little recap of the previous chapter(s) each time I post.
> 
> Thanks for your patience and for reading, as always. You know, your comments really make my fucking day ♥️ 
> 
> **Chapter 18 recap:**  
>  Lucas coming clean to Cholé has been past due for a while. He has been so busy. Last time we saw him he was confronted and couldn't avoid the issue any longer. It didn't go super well. One thing leading to another, he still ended up taking some pretty big steps in terms of letting the people around him know who he's in love with. Because yeah, he's in love with Eliott. Maybe it became even clearer to himself, as well. We left them in a very intimate moment on Lucas' sofa and that's where we'll pick up in this chapter.
> 
> I don't know why the link to my tumblr hasn't been working. Hate that. I'm not a coder, a03.  
>  Anyway, come talk to [me](https://evestrand.tumblr.com/). Sharing a lot of inspirational things there, such as music, beautiful men dancing ballet, Élu, literature and stuff.
> 
> Thank you, Rokiana and Ellie, for reading and sorting this chapter out with me. My eternal gratitude to you.
> 
> While I do have knowledge and experience of ballet and being a student at a classical dance school, some things have been altered to a less realistic respresentation for the purpose of creating an appealing story.
> 
> Note that Lucas' thoughts, chat conversation and various French phrases and words are written in italics. I realize it may cause confusion, but I hope it won't. Don't hesitate to ask me if questions arise ♥️
> 
> This is part of a multichapter work that will update weekly. Until the end of time. Bisous (especially to my muses in SUF). Kudos and Komments are highly appreciated ♥️ 
> 
> Written with utmost respect for the creators and characters of the original work.

Thursday March 6. 01.25

 _the apartment_  // harvest

Following him on a meteoritic rise, Lucas hangs on to Eliott’s hips in wonder. He is brought back to the land of the living as there’s a warm flow of Eliott in his mouth that he swallows, first once, and then again. 

Eliott flops back, mouth slack as the rest of him, except for his dick still twitching in Lucas’ mouth. “Fuck. Come here,” he rasps after a moment, reaching for Lucas. Lucas leaves his dick and wipes his mouth but stays nestled between his thighs. “Just…come here for a sec,” Eliott grumbles again and continues to pull, eventually hauls him up to the sofa and tumbles them over to the side. He moves around and gets Lucas half under him.

“Something wrong?”

Eliott pinches his ear. “What did it seem like, to you?”

Lucas is smug. “Something right,” he says quietly.

“Mmm.” Eliott is spent, stunned and sweaty. He even pulls off his t-shirt, before crashing down on Lucas again. 

New number one with a bullet in his charting system of proud accomplishments, knocking down his admission to l’École de danse de l’Opéra de Paris and not one, but two principal roles in its productions: making Eliott climax with his mouth.  

“Something fucking amazing,” he adds, fingering Lucas’ bottom lip gently, putting a kiss to it. 

Eliott recovers with his face to Lucas’ neck. “Can I stay?” he asks after a beat.

“Yes,” Lucas says, fresh to the fact that not staying had been an option. He recalls Eliott’s dismissive silence on the way home and adds “I want you to.”

Eliott looks at him with a precious little smile, shifting on top of him. He shifts again, stops, and lifts himself up on his elbow; gazing down at their aligned bodies. “You’re hard.”

“Yeah. I-“ Lucas starts and stops, and looks down at himself.

Eliott grabs hold of his dick through his jeans. “It’s beautiful.” Roused from post-oral stupor, he squirms his way up and leans back on his haunches, pulling Lucas legs over his own. Lucas groans with relief when he opens his zipper, not a minute too early. “You’re about to explode, aren’t you,” Eliott says, quietly rubbing a finger into the wet spot of precome on his shorts. He reaches inside them but freezes when keys scramble in the lock of the apartment door.

Lucas, with need ripe as a dripping peach, is already caught up in what they’re doing to the exclusion of everything else. He realizes that they are still in the living room, treating it like their private lover’s lane, when Eliott curses, ducks down on him and scrambles to pull his pants up. Mika’s voice, followed by an unidentified, enters the room. They cover up in a chaos of legs and elbows, Lucas nearly capsizing off the sofa at one point, partially covered by the furniture.

“Oh, hi. I can see you.” 

Lucas sticks up his head, Eliott grimacing under him. “Hi.”

“I see you too, long-legs,” Mika says and shrugs off his coat. There’s nowhere for Eliott to hide anyway. “This is my housemate, Lucas; Sophie. And this is his- well, I don’t know. Romeo. Eliott. Whatever you go by.”

Eliott bends into a challenging angle, reaching for his t-shirt on the floor and Lucas carefully puts his own to his chest and gets up. “We were just leaving. Going.” He greets Mika’s company awkwardly and passes them with an equally odd sideways gait. 

“Aha. I’m sorry; it’s like this around here nowadays,” says Mika to his unfazed, seemingly amused guest. “Ever since you started coming around. But I forgive you,” he directs to Eliott, walking by him bare chested.

*

“I’m growing in popularity by the day,” Eliott says after closing the door behind him. 

Lucas laughs and scratches his head, a little flustered. “He’s just jealous.”

“Of me? I bet.” 

“Other way around.”

Eliott shakes his head and closes in on him. “Come on,” Lucas continues. “Have you looked at yourself in the mirror, like ever?”

“Many times. Every day in class for the past ten years.”

“ _Voilà_. You know what I’m talking about, then.”

Eliott doesn’t respond immediately but steers them down on the bed and climbs in over Lucas. “No.”

“Yes,” Lucas says with conviction. 

“Beauty lies in the eye of the beholder.” 

Lucas protests again but lets himself be kissed. He resigns from the compliment battle when Eliott maneuvers his legs around himself and hisses “I’m not done with you, yet.” He gets him naked and mutters _like this_ , copying the installment from the living room; hoisting Lucas’ legs over his own. Bold and too horny for reflection Lucas stretches his body, grabbing the pillow behind his head, and flexes. _Look at me and let it linger_. Eliott remains quiet, watching the show, and proceeds to wrap his fingers around Lucas’ dick, placing the other one over his hip. Lucas grinds his teeth, thinking that he’ll be calm this time.

Eliott’s face descending on his body and his tongue on his nipple is just another new sensation; it’s boundless. Lucas leans into it. Eliott looks, as if to determine how to attack it best and kisses it, before licking a burning trail to the other. 

For a moment, Lucas is angry and grabs at his hair; frustrated with him for pushing him into a constant state of overload, making him keen and love in a manner that has never been in his repertoire. Forced to discover himself at the same time as Eliott does, constantly pushed along the border of the unknown; sooner or later inevitably falling into the abyss. Nobody made love to his nipples before. Eliott licks and probes and loves, stroking him into a craze so rapidly. The sun hasn’t risen yet but street lights let him see him; they make Eliott’s hair pale gold where it’d be cendré and his skin candescent. He’s been crazy all along, for him. So he talks, because maybe he hasn’t been clear.

“I’ve wanted you since the first moment I saw you,” he grinds out. “And I haven’t stopped thinking about you since.” Eliott slows down his hand and looks up at him. “Nearly drove myself crazy.” He could go on but Eliott looks so galvanized that he stops and snickers.

“Yeah?” Eliott traverses the curve between his clavicles across his throat, leaving a brief kiss on his affectionate spot before melding his mouth to Lucas’. Lucas can’t see what he’s doing but feels him moving about and jolts when he brings his own dick to his, grasping them in his hand. “What were you thinking about, then? This?” Lucas struggles to see, he has to, pushing at Eliott’s shoulder. It certainly hadn’t been exactly that. It makes quite a vision. 

“It’s new to me; all this,” he explains breathily.   

Eliott pauses and follows Lucas’ gaze. “It might be new, but it’ll never go out of style.” He splays his hand down the concavity of Lucas abdomen; holding the back of his head in the other. 

Eliott proceeds to jerk them off in unison with hard, firm strokes. While Lucas hangs on to the sheets and his arm for dear life; Eliott stares at him like he’s observing the birth of another galaxy, perceptive as ever. He abandons the commitment to stay calm gradually until the point where Eliott struggles to keep him in his hand; but instinct takes over and all that he is, is kiss, suck and fuck. 

When he notices Lucas getting close before himself, Eliott detaches himself from his mouth and says “It’s okay. Come for me,” rising up with the devil in his eye. “Wanna watch, wanna listen.” Lucas comes in technicolor, arching his back, spilling everywhere. Eliott said that he doesn’t mind the mess; _he likes this mess_ Lucas thinks fleetingly, watching him stroke his sperm onto himself.  Through glazed eyes, he warms himself dopily in the view of Eliott getting up on his knees, making himself climax, wishing he could capture him. 

 

Thursday March 7. 02.41

 _the apartment_  // 

_Lucas: Hi, I’m sorry for tonight. I get that you’re pissed, but can we talk tomorrow?_

_Lucas: You deserve to know the truth_

_Chloé: You can meet me before class on Monday._

 

Thursday March 7. 03.19

 _the apartment_  // nocturnal reading

“You hated me, at first.” Eliott draws Lucas’ arm closer to his chest, wiggling his butt into the lying V between his torso and thighs. “A little.”

“I didn’t.” What he felt is hard to revive but faint, pinching traces of hurt still springs up when he pokes around inside. “I didn’t know what to feel.”

Eliott snickers. “You have a terrible poker face.”  

Needing reassurance, Lucas pushes at Eliott’s shoulder and makes him turn around to face him. “I had this stupid idea, that Romeo was mine.”

Eliott sparkles an enigmatic smile. “Romeo is yours, in fact.”

Lucas grins and quips “Oh, yeah?” twirling internally. He needs time; words come about as easy as a Monday morning.  “Maybe I was a bit reluctant… Instinctively.” He has had so little time to reflect and there’s no calm, distanced perspective to fall back on; he’s commenting a live stream. “But I had stronger instincts.”

“That’s okay,” Eliott says and kisses the back of his hand. 

“So you just read me? Like an open book?”

“I like to say that, but… I think you wanted to show me.” It’s an original view of everything. In Lucas perception of things he had concealed himself, until he couldn’t anymore and everything erupted. “Each day, you let me read another page,” Eliott goes on. His skin is a little damp and it’s too warm under the covers, but none of them does anything about it. “And I couldn’t put the book down.”

 

Friday March 8. 14.36

 _the apartment_  // resistes prouves que tu existes

Eliott stays. Eliott wears his clothes and the way the sweats end above his ankles prompts laughter from Lucas and the question if he’s expecting a flood. “It’s New York. You don’t get it,” Eliott comments.

Free from noise, strife and disturbance, Lucas reclines on one of the sofas with Eliott between his legs, resting on his side with his head on his chest. 

“Here.” Manon hands one bowl of runny crumble pie to Lucas and another one to Eliott. “Homemade. By yours truly.”

“And by me,” Mika says from the other sofa.

“Well, and me,” Mika’s friend says. She has stayed, as well, and Lucas is progressively tempted to ask who she is. Knowing Mika she could be anything; a twin sister Lucas never knew about, an adoptee or a lover, although the first two are more likely than the last. 

“Let’s agree to disagree,” Manon says and sits back next to Mika. 

Lucas listens to everything but in all truthfulness it wouldn’t matter what they said or did. As long as he can stay exactly like this, with his lover against his chest, still and warm. He is satisfied to participate with the blessed distance of someone who has it all. Eliott knows how to savor it; he wants to curl up and he’s gorgeous under Lucas’ chin. 

“Should we pay attention to this?” Eliott says. 

Lucas snaps back and pipes up. “Not eating this until you decide who made it. Could pose a health risk.”

“I defrosted the raspberries, at least give me that,” says Mika.

“It was me,” Manon interrupts. “Eat.”

“You did a super good job with the defrosting,” Eliott says to Mika who mouths _Merci_.

“I hate X-Factor. “I hate the panel,” Manon groans to the TV.  “They wouldn’t know talent if it wined, dined and sixty-nined them.”

Mika agrees, but adds; “They know the money. It’s important, shitty as it may be.” 

“You’re damaged by our teachers. By the school,” Lucas says. They all are, when it comes down to it. Fight the power, when it doesn’t operate in your preferred direction.

“Maybe I’m only rebellious because it’s our final year; I don’t know. Can’t we do something crazy? Something else, for the closing of Romeo and Juliet,” Manon says with increasing passion.

“Like what?” asks Lucas.

“I don’t know. I wasn’t made to rebel. But I want to; I’m tired of those old, pretentious, fancy parties that are supposed to make us feel like we mean something.”

Mika scoffs. “Hopla, Snow White. Easy on the cynicism.” 

“I like it,” Eliott says. “Let’s do something else.”

“He gets it,” Manon directs to Mika. 

Lucas turns his chin to his chest and nudges Eliott. “What do you wanna do?”

“Was thinking that you, with your habitual disobedience, could figure it out?” 

 _I’ll show you disobedience._ All the little things in his face make a mess of his head. 

“We book something, some place that’ll hold all of us and we don’t say shit to teachers,” Eliott continues. 

Manon doubts. “You mean, we don’t let them know anything? At all?” 

“Otherwise it’s not an act of rebellion,” Eliott states. Lucas listens with deepening emotion. His love is a house with a bottomless roof. 

 

Monday March 8. 14.36

 _l’École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris_ // déshabillé

It seems more and more like the kind of conversation you should put off a whole afternoon for. They could dance around the issue forever. Chloé plays with the lid of her take-away coffee and avoids his gaze. Music comes through the studio doors to where they sit and in less than ten minutes about thirty junior dancers will, as well. Everything is black and eggshell, Chloé’s hair against the wall behind her; the coffee and light from outside; as colorless as their dialogue. 

“Don’t worry; you don’t have to break up with me or anything. I already know we’re through,” she finally says, in a much delayed response to Lucas question about what she’s thinking. She falls silent again. Their romance seems a faint light in ancient history to him even though it barely has been weeks, and before that periodically replaying like a broken record over the past year. She’s catching up only now and he can’t make amends for the contrast.

“I’m sorry, that it’s like this.”

Chloé looks deflated and pale. “If I hadn’t been so available, maybe you’d still care about me.”

“I care,” he says and her dead stare makes him shift and fidget where he sits. “Just not in the right way.”

“Yeah.”

“But it has nothing to do with you. That’s what hurts so much. There is nothing you could have done,” he says. She’s patient, making him feel even worse. If he just continues to produce words, they might string themselves together, into sentences worth listening to. “I know all of this is my fault and that I should have told you way before. I’m sorry about what happened at the bar. But with all those people around …Anyway, you shouldn’t- it shouldn’t have ended the way it did.” 

She scoffs and shakes her head. “What was that about? Students start appearing from the studio, sweaty and loaded with bags and apparel at the same time as a few of the other seniors approach. 

 “You remember what we talked about? What you said, just before that?” 

“Before what? Before Eliott came?”

“You asked me something. Do you remember?”

“Yes.” 

 _Here goes_. “Well. I- That’s…who.” 

She’s lost. He doesn’t mean to turn it into a riddle. He gets the sudden idea that it would be easier if he could write it on a note and give it to her and stifles a smile because that’s stupid. 

“What?” Chloé says that she doesn’t get it, but he watches understanding seep in; infiltrating her head like a slow hemorrhage, portioned between unaffected segments where doubt lingers. “You’ve been cheating on me?”

“It’s Eliott.” He’s sensible enough not to start a discourse on the definitions of cheating.

In sudden crisis, she gathers her belongings and moves to get up, but halts again. “You’re kidding me?”

“I’m not.”

She gets up, finally, but remains by the table. Lucas instinctively wishes he would be the one standing up instead. 

“Eliott?” It’s a rhetorical question. She looks at him with red revulsion, the kind that claws unpredictably at your brain or your heart, depending on your psychological disposition. But she’s not crying. Lucas clasps his hands in front of his mouth and sighs. “You’re gay?” _Thanks, they might not have heard you in Spain._ He’d thought the answer to that question would come to him after extensive inner inspection; after exhausting himself with the subject and then some. Not in dialogue with someone else, especially not with Chloé. It’s not an issue meant to be examined or questioned, it’s beyond intellectual capacity. It’s nature. 

“What does that matter,” he mutters. 

She laughs sardonically. “Why were you with me, then?”

“Because I hadn’t met him, yet” he says before he can stop himself and he winces, immediately wanting to shove his fist into his mouth. 

“Wow,” is all that she says. Her levelheaded sarcasm tugs unexpectedly at his heart; it would be easier if she flipped out on him. Now, he has to stare disaster in the eye and it’s so much clearer when she’s not yelling. “I don’t wanna talk to you.” 

“I’m sorry that I hurt you. I didn’t see this coming.” 

“You must have though, for a while?” She throws away her cup and walks back and forth a few times in front of him. “All those times, when I’ve been trying to reach you, wondering where the fuck you were. You’ve been with him?”

It’s for everyone’s best that he doesn’t answer. All those times, he was with him; on a tour of the galaxy under, above and inside him. 

“You’re so impressionable. Good luck,” she says and leaves. 

 

Monday March 11. 10:27

 _l’École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris_ // lion ascends 

  _Lucas: There. I talked to Chloé_

 

_Eliott: How did it go?_

_Lucas: Good. I think_

_Eliott: ☺_

_Eliott: What did you tell her?_

_Lucas: The truth._

_Lucas: That I’m with you now._

_Eliott: lionheart_ _♥_


	20. Grand Allegro 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 19 recap:  
>  Lucas and Eliott's relationship is a living, blooming thing. In the last chapter, they were caught in the act by Mika, spoke about their initial impressions of each other, and Lucas finally fessed up to Chloé.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, my beautiful betas. I owe you ♥️ A little bit longer chapter than usual. Enjoy!
> 
> Note that Lucas' thoughts, chat conversation and various French phrases and words are written in italics. I realize it may cause confusion, but I hope it won't. Don't hesitate to ask me if questions arise ♥️
> 
> This is part of a multichapter work that will update weekly. Until the end of time. Bisous (especially to my muses in SUF). Kudos and Komments are highly appreciated ♥️ 
> 
> Written with utmost respect for the creators and characters of the original work.

Monday March 10. 13.19

 _l’École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris_ // longing out

”In terms of the ensemble, this production is comparable to Swan Lake; it’s much larger than Romeo and Juliet or any previous ballet you’ve done. We’ll have sixty-six of you on stage in total during each performance.” It’s obvious to everyone that it’s going to be a full house; sixty-five of them are attending the initiation seminar. The younger ones sit shoulder to shoulder closest to the center. Niels riffles through his papers. “The larger the ensemble; the greater demands for cooperation. Those of you who have acquired some experience of being on stage, you support your juniors. You know how important it is,” he goes on. 

Lucas looks at the paper in his hand and snickers. Cast as the Fox, he willl dance with a band of twelve-year-old small foxes. He has a good hand with them and takes pride in that, because he still remembers what it was like to be new and susceptible to the opinion of anyone senior. Just his acknowledgement will make them happy but Lucas enjoys the alliance himself. He needed the reassurance at that age and providing it in retrospect, but with him in the senior capacity, is the closest he’ll get to compensation for the lack thereof. And the kids always make him crack up. 

“ _Coucou_ ,” Eliott breathes in his neck. 

“Where did you come from? Couldn’t see you when I got here.“

“Shh.” Eliott points to Niels and tries to install himself behind Lucas, mumbling an excuse to the person sitting next to him. 

Eliott sits and folds out one leg alongside him. Quietness is restored and Lucas wants to envelop himself; bring that leg around his arm, to his face, to his chest. He longs out. It smolders inside,  seeking his attention, but he doesn’t let on. He stays where he is, with only the warmth from Eliott’s body to lean into and the instinctive awareness of his eye lashes’ butterfly kiss, that would flutter against his neck if he leaned back just so. He looks around and wonders if the others can tell the difference; if they scent  the events unfolding out of their sight and intimacy requesting to be acknowledged.  

“Costume is a big business. We’re getting on that immediately; pay close attention to the schedule and when you’re due for fitting.”

Eliott snatches the list of characters from Lucas and whispers “It’s perfect for you.” He prods a finger to his tailbone, making Lucas yelp. “And you’ll get to wear a tail.”

“Stop!”Lucas lets his eyes linger behind him too long to suppress a laugh. 

“Quiet,” Niels says and continues; “It’ll be demanding days, particularly for those of you dancing the last Romeo and Juliets. Eat, rest, rehearse. And pay attention in class.” 

 

Wednesday March 13. 08.25

 _la résidence de l’École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris_ _(Eliott’s apartment)_ // des adieux

Eliott goes away for four days. His mother requests his presence, visiting his aunt on the west coast. He has told Lucas in advance, but he has repressed having any knowledge about it, because he secretly disapproves of the idea of Eliott going anywhere. He wants him to stay; preferably within a one meter radius of himself. He doesn’t tell Eliott any of this but true to his habit, Eliott sees through him. It’s not that he just reads him like an open book, he reads him as if he was an open, plastic-wrapped children’s book with big font and colorful, pedagogical illustrations, safe for biting and sucking. And then there’s just no point in pretending any more, is there. He sulks around in sweatpants in Eliott’s apartment, nursing a coffee while Eliott packs. 

“Are you going out with the others on Friday? They were saying something about that.”

“Who did?” Lucas asks and sinks down on the bed, distractedly eyeing the backside of a book. 

“Mika. Can’t remember who else; his caretaker. It’s a release party or something.”

“Manon?”

“Yeah.”

“She’s everyone’s caretaker,” Lucas says. “I don’t know. Don’t know if I’m in the mood for it.” Lucas lifts up the cover of the record playing, scanning it for a familiar name. 

He feels Eliott observing him, before he leaves his bag and approaches. “Hey.” He tilts Lucas’ chin up by a finger under it. “Grumpy.” 

Lucas tries to dodge him and twists his face away half-heartedly. "I’m not.” 

“You’re cute when you’re moping.”

“I’m not.” 

Eliott wraps him up to his stomach. “I know I’m cute, ‘s not that,” Lucas grumbles into his t-shirt.

“Mmm. So do I,” Eliott says and bends down to him, putting his nose against his. Lucas doesn’t reply, but kisses him searchingly; asking for more when he tries to talk to him. “It’s just for three days,” 

Lucas pulls him down across his lap; he wants to feel him, full and close, before he leaves. In his calculations, it sums up to four evenings until Saturday, but Eliott says that’s not how you count. Eliott lets himself blanket Lucas, leaning into him with mouth and body, tipping them back on the bed. “Okay?” he says, before Lucas can raise objections. 

“Yeah.” Instead, he moves under Eliott, winding his arms around his waist and neck.  

Feeling the searching pressure of Lucas slowly rotating his hips into him, Eliott says; “You’re making it very difficult for me.” Although his face, while watching himself sitting astride Lucas, broadcasts a wish that he’d make it even harder. He closes in, kisses Lucas and starts bearing down on him rhythmically. 

“I’m making what difficult?” Lucas says, and grabs at his hips.

“Leaving.”

“Stay like this instead, then.” 

Then Eliott has to remove himself and leaves Lucas on the bed, projecting a fire upwards. “You can stay as long as you like,” he says but Lucas’ sense of pride tells him it would be too much of an abandoned-footballer’s-wife-quality to hanging around in Eliott’s apartment while he’s not there, so he says he’ll get going in a bit, too. Humiliated by his own vulnerability and unsure of what to do with it, he does his best to stave it off. Eliott comes back from the door, putting a long kiss on his forehead and then a chaste one on his lips, groans and leaves. 

Lucas smells Eliott’s jacket on his way out, slaps himself mentally and closes the door behind him.

 

Thursday March 14. 20.20

 _the 17th arrondissement, Paris_ // set the record straight

On Thursday evening, Lucas meets up with his friends with simmering trepidation. He has already seen them in school and it’s getting unbearable not to address the blinking elephant that follows them around from room to room. If Eliott had been a girl, Lucas would have given them the low-down at the first available opportunity. He finds Basile, Yann and Arthur under the heat lamps at an anonymous brasserie after a short argument with Google maps. 

He follows the whimsical flow of conversation for as long as it lasts, gravitating closer and closer to what nobody wants to be the first to bring up. It’s not all pretense, though. Side tracks take them into long debates about dance and politics and it’s a relief to know that those matters still exist and need talking-time. But when Basile asks how things are, Lucas has to lay it out. It could be the product of a wary mind, but it feels like everyone becomes peculiarly quiet, the seconds it takes before he says “They’re good.” 

“Good that they are good,” Arthur says, “but they already know everything, after your little performance at the bar” he continues and picks up Lucas’ hand, kisses it and bows; mimicking his gentlemanly departure with Eliott. 

“It was grand, wish someone would do that to me,” Basile says and raises his glass. Lucas laughs and coughs, insecurely stepping forward. 

“Give it time,” Arthur says and pats Basile’s hand. 

The quietness, this time definitely not imaginary, is unusual and naked. 

“So, what’s the deal?” Yann asks, finally. 

Lucas sits on his fingers to keep them from fiddling with anything they can find on the table. “Er- the deal is that, there is a thing… We have a thing. It’s- that. With Eliott.” 

“Well, what kind of thing, exactly?” Basile asks after a moment. 

“The kind of thing where… What kind of question is that anyway? How many things are there to have?” Lucas says, knowing they must understand. 

“Could be the kind of thing where you just… I don’t know, talk-“

“Exchange postage stamps,” Arthur suggests. 

Basile nods; “Or other collectors’ items.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think about that,” Yann says.

Lucas gives a wonky little smile; jargon only pacifies the stressed butterflies in him somewhat. “It’s not that thing. No collectors’ business. It’s the other.” 

Silence widens the distance across the table between them, until Yann speaks up. “Wow. I really had no idea, until now. Or until last week, maybe. But still,” he says astoundedly.

“Me neither,” Basile says. “Until you pulled him away and almost forgot your phone and jacket at the bar. But then I also thought you might be fighting, going out to settle it, macho-style. But the hand-holding seemed odd, then.”

“I didn’t know, either.” Lucas twirls his bottle around on the table and secures his gaze on it, frustrated with his tongue-tiedness. “Until it happened.” 

“Not to brag, but I knew. I can smell that kind of shit; I always know when people are hooking up,” Arthur brags. 

Basile isn’t impressed. “Start doing readings, if you’re so good. Open up your own shop; I believe in you.

Lucas is torn by relief and need of acceptance, and some annoyance over the confessional air of it all, because a confession implies you’re culpable of a wrong-doing and he’s tired of feeling guilty. But it all needs to be said; they’re not going to be able to guess and get it all right. “I meant to tell you earlier, way earlier, but it was fucked up…difficult.”

“Yeah, but, why didn’t you? asks Yann.

“Would you have?” Lucas pauses when the waiter brings coffee to their table. 

“When did it start?” Basile asks when he’s gone. 

Lucas shrugs and hesitates. “It started right off. When Eliott came here,” he says. “But I didn’t get it at first. Was lost… it took a while. But, then I got it.”

“That’s what he said,” Basile quips and defends himself with _It’s an expression!_ when Yann groans and Lucas hides his face in his hands. “It’s an american pop-cultural reference. You should ask Eliott about that.”

“I know what it means, asshole” Lucas says. “Before he came, I didn’t know anything about all this…” he goes on quietly.  “I just thought I was ...bad, with girls. Like, hadn’t figured out how to do it.”

“What, girls? You did plenty of girls.” 

“This is different. Believe me.” Lucas’ eyes narrow. “Why are you taking this so well?”

“Wow. Thanks for having faith, really,” Yann scoffs. 

“He’s telling you now,” Arthur says. “I only knew before because I’m gifted; it’s not his fault.”

“I just thought you’d find it… and the way people have been talking about him, all that shit, I didn’t know what you’d say. 

“But that was before, right?” asks Yann. “He’s not with him, whatever his name was.” 

“Nikolai Surhane,” Basile fills in. Lucas fumbles around blindly for the face matching that name, and immediate animosity stings him when he finds it. He knows who that is. And suddenly, he also knows that’s who Eliott loved, lost and exposed. 

“And not with Lucille,” Arthur says, framing it like a statement when it’s really a question.

“No, he’s with me,” Lucas says, as much to himself as to the others.

 

Thursday March 14. 23.10

 _the apartment_ // bane of my existence

Knowing that Lucas has back-to-back classes, Eliott sent him a message of encouragement in the morning. Sweating man runs, dances, sweats more and has muscled arm, an explosion happens and then the man gets a medal, an aubergine and a smug face, which Lucas interprets as an expression of support and of possible upcoming reward. After that, it’s been quiet. 

He hangs out with Mika and Manon, after swearing up and down to never again use _Eminem_ to refer to them both. He is worn out from ballet practice and love confession. Whatever resources still available, he uses for vehement repression of the existence of Nikolai Surhane; a Russian, retired principal dancer in the Royal Ballet, artistic director of the School of American Ballet and Eliott’s last romantic interest. The crash and burn-affair that set Eliott off in a completely different trajectory; the sole reason he came into Lucas life. While none of them are particularly constructive to begin with, retroactive jealousy is maybe the most destructive of all the jealousies. Because, it’s pointless. The way Eliott avoids the topic, even though it must have been an epically kairotic moment in time with consequences that still could be difficult to fully overlook, concerns him. Not that he wants to know. 

He made his friends solemnly swear not to tell anyone about Eliott and him, because he was more sore than brave after Basile’s name-reveal. He wants to be free and progressive, but each time he takes a step out the feeling gets complicated in ways he could never predict. It’s difficult to separate what he thinks of himself from what he thinks that others think of him.  It’s easier when Eliott is nearby. His presence restores harmony; gently, wordlessly quelling any problems he might have with himself. And with Russian dancers. 

 

Thursday March 14. 23.16

 _the apartment_ // textually active

_Eliott: Ask me what I’m thinking about_

_Lucas: What are you thinking about?_

When his phone vibrates again he looks down at it, then quickly up again and decides to leave Eminem to themselves. 

_Eliott: You. Naked, on your stomach, in my bed._

_Lucas: Yeah?_

Lucas closes the door and sits on his bed, completely forgetting the world outside his phone in favor of the sharp pang of throbbing excitement.

_Eliott: Yeah. You’re relaxed but you want me, badly._

_Lucas: Where are you?_

_Eliott: Behind you. I’m watching you_

_Eliott: Your body is a fucking dream. Your butt, your shoulders.._

_Lucas: You’re right. I want you, badly_

_Eliott: Touch yourself_

His stomach is warm as he lies down and slides his fingers over it, and it’s so easy to open his jeans. Two can play at this game and the next move is a photo of his hand shoved down his pants.

_Eliott: It hurts me to watch but not touch_

_Lucas: Come closer, then_

Lucas rolls over on stomach with pornographic imagination, itching to take himself further. 

_Eliott: I’m right there. Can you feel what you’re doing to me? To my dick?_

_Lucas: Ugh, Eliott. Fuck. I’m going crazy_

_Eliott: Not yet_

_Lucas: Sadist_

_Eliott: Believe me, I want me to fuck you too. But first, I’m going to eat you_

_Lucas: Go on…_

_Eliott: only if you tell me what you’re doing_

Lucas struggles to type with his left hand, blowing hair out of his face.

_Lucas: I’m on my stomach with my hand in my shorts trying not to fuck my bed_

_Eliott: Good. Now close your eyes while I lick all the way up your spine_

_Eliott: And then down again. all the way down_

Lucas thrusts into his fist, nearly making it too good and pants into the pillow. 

_Lucas: Eliott_

_Eliott: Lucas_

_Eliott: I want my tongue where you’re so close, you’ve never felt anything like it_

He types out “ _Oh yeah?”_ but his gut reaction is closer to “ _Really?”_ having no idea where Eliott is taking him. Whatever ideas he has, Lucas will roll with it. Those ideas, whatever they are, just add to all the things he doesn’t know about, extending the part of the galaxy he hasn’t been allowed to see. Lucas desperately wishes Eliott was there; he needs his solid form to cling to and to see that it’s all real.

_Eliott: if you’ll let me. Don’t worry, everything tastes good with love on your lips_

_Lucas: you’re dirty_

_Eliott: must be a match made in heaven, lover_

_Lucas: I wana fuck_

_Eliott: Don’t come yet_

_Lucas: why not?_

_Eliott: wait for me_

_Lucas: How long do you need?_

_Eliott: Saturday?_

Lucas stares at his phone. Saturday?

_Eliott: I’m back in the evening. yours_

_Eliott: I’ve gotta go, driving my aunt to her house_

_Eliott:_ _♥_

Lucas throws the phone to the side and stares in front of him. _I hate you. I love you._

 

 Friday March 15. 09.31

the apartment // mars in retrograde

“I slept like shit.”

“You look like shit, too.” Manon eyes Lucas closely and resumes preparing the coffee maker. “You should shave.”

He rubs his hand over his chin. “Oh yeah, I should. I have fitting today.” She brings him a mug. “The fox. The foxiest fox ever.”

“That’s you.” She yawns, stretches and sits down. “I slept really bad too. I’m a mess.”

“I can see that, too. I’m just polite enough not to tell you to shave.” 

“Mmm. Who said chivalry is dead.” 

Coffee helps him accept that it’s still only Friday and the long day looming ahead; it’s a mental hug and encouraging pat on the shoulder. “I don’t shave, it’s not healthy. I’m _au naturelle_ ,” Manon says. Tiredness interferes with his usual verbal filters and almost lets him say _Yup_ , but he stops it in time. He wonders why he has to be reminded of his lapsus of judgement on the daily. There’s always some little event that jogs his memory; something she says or does, or just that he walks by her room. It’s vexing. Manon is unfazed, though. Maybe she already has forgotten about it. _Good for her_. Had he really been that bad though? He gives and uncommitted hum and drinks his coffee instead of asking. 

“Why couldn’t you sleep? Is Mars in retrograde?” she asks.

“Excuse me?” he says, to which Manon just shakes her head and says _Never mind_. “I don’t know. Just couldn’t.”

“Where’s Elliot?”

“On the west coast somewhere; a small place. With his family.”

“Oh. I almost didn’t think he had one,” Manon says. 

“A family? They just don’t live here.” Eliott might as well not have one, judging by how many times he has mentioned it. Lucas knows close to nothing, other than that there is a mother and a sister, and a father that he for some reason has the impression is estranged from his son.

“I know. But you know… he just seems a bit like an orphan, sometimes.”

Lucas looks up at that. Other people notice it too, the shadow of a stray boy drifting by, those fleeting moments between others when Eliott leaves the present without realizing it.

“Rootless, you know?” Manon adds.

He knows. “He doesn’t like his apartment.” Lucas looks at his coffee. “But, I like having him here.” 

“Me, too,” Manon says. “You’re happy when he is here. So is he, from the looks of it. And sounds.”

Lucas rubs his palms over his face and shuts out her laughter. “Oh god.”

“It’s okay, we love a passionate couple.”

He groans. “Stop. Will this ever end?”

“I sleep with noise cancelling earphones,” Manon says and gets up. “Might end the day I won’t have to anymore.”

“Bullshit you are. I never said anything about you and Charles; leave me alone.” Lucas takes his cup and leaves the table too, it seems as good an opportunity as any.

“You did actually, you said a lot of things.” Manon runs the faucet and adds, “Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for you. It’s just very- there. Colorful.”

“ _J’ai compris_. Thank you. Gotta get to class.”

 

Friday March 15. 18.01

l’École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris // the pursuit of foxiness

”I always wanted freckles. Maybe not black ones.”

Lucas sits in a folding chair in front of a mirror, brightly lit by fluorescent light bulbs. He inspects his face; the dark eyebrows, white cheekbones and little blackened triangle on his nose, which the make-up artist – it’s a veritable artistry –  struggles with.

“Those are not freckles; they are whiskers,” she says about the dark dots on his cheeks. “Or they are meant to be, at least. We just don’t have the hair ready yet. I’m waiting for the wigmaker.”

He has been posted in the same spot for over an hour and a half; preparations early on are time-consuming and experimental in nature. The costume was deemed too tight over his thighs and needs refitting; the seams creaked when he tried to pliée which had amused everyone. But he gets to keep the ears on, to his contentment.

He may be waiting for Saturday to come around like a child waits for Christmas but the careful arranging and rearranging; the fixing and tweaking of his appearance is a granted source of distraction. Finding the guise is groundwork; the exterior scaffolding of the persona that needs to be done before he can start shadowing the character and learn to see the world through his eyes. For now, he just sits through it and it’s all that he needs to do. A younger fox comes in, puts a protein bar in front of him and stares at him in the mirror.

“Thank you. Are you tired of waiting?” Lucas asks.

The baby fox kind of shrugs, says it’s okay and leaves. They still haven’t rehearsed but schedule rarely holds up all through the day.

“We’re done in just a little,” he is informed.

Lucas looks at himself. “Happy?” he asks.

“It’ll have to do,” she says. “I have an idea about how to do it now. Close your eyes. Open them.”

“I’ve never looked better.”

Lucas does what he’s told and while she examines his face. She manipulates and tugs at the ears until he says _Aïe, my hair_. He tilts his head away and fingers the accessories on the top of his head. “Feel that they stay put while you dance, that they’re stable. Come back next week and I’ll show you how to do all of this yourself.”

*

“We’ll go straight for petit allegro, we’re out of time. It will take a while anyway,” Auguste says, glancing up from his paper from a chair in the corner, when Lucas gets to the studio. Old sweat is to be exchanged for new as one group leaves and the foxes enter.

“Yes. Okay?” Christophe directs to Lucas who nods. He leaves the barre after a very basic warm-up and takes off his sweater and pants. The younger dancers have rehearsed together already, he can tell immediately from looking at them marking their choreography while Christophe directs them. Lucas hasn’t rehearsed worth a damn but it’s a simple sequence; this will have to be his run.

“ _Pas de chat, grand pas de chat, glissade, glissade, assemblé, pas de bourré, pirouette_. To the center, change, go back. Not too far, keep the circle tight.”

“You ready?” Lucas says to the juniors. “You already know it? Good, then I’ll follow you instead of the other way around.”

“Small foxes come in the second time, big fox third. That’s eight counts, guys.”

Lucas debuts as a fox with two _pas the chat_ and a _ballonné_ , coming to a halt in the middle of the floor and hunches down in his best Canidae interpretation. He teaches them the hunt; they circumnavigate him and mimic his steps until he shoos them off, reminding of the tough love they’re already acquainted with through their schooling. They’re little beasts doing their best; they give it all they’ve got while the night falls outside. They have the light fingertips and properly angled elbows. An eon of time has already been spent adjusting them.

*

Condensation mists the windows at the bottom. Lucas is running on spare engine but creativity is still flowing; new details are worked out as they go along. It slows down the process, hopefully for the greater good. One of the small ones falls but Christophe decides to keep it in the choreography as a slap-stick feature.

Lucas says good job to one of his cubs and high-fives another; their well-earned reward. His own reward is, unbeknownst to him, watching from the door like he also wants to partake in the family of foxes. When Lucas walks off to the side, wiping sweat off his face with a cotton towel and sees Eliott, there’s a quake and a slam-bang to his gut. Eliott leans against the door frame with his hands in his pockets and stellar presence, mysteriously descended ahead of time. He smirks, letting the rubber band extend from himself across the floor, stretch and clasp around Lucas, before taking a step back. With complete absence of doubt, Lucas abandons his flock and zig-zags his way between its members. A technician cuts in before him as he leaves but skidding out in the corridor, he catches sight of Eliott waiting by the locker room.

He came back early. Why and how is irrelevant, in comparison to the fact.

Eliott backs the door open as soon as he lays eyes on him. If he wants to play cat and mouse he’s about to get his ass handed to him, because there’s no one quicker than Lucas. Still, when he reaches the changing room he halts and fixates on Eliott. He stands there in the dim light, Machiavellian and impatient.

“What are you doing here?” Lucas says, spilling over with amazement. Eliott grasps his hand and pulls him into the room. In a series of hurried movements; one smoothly connected to the other, he shuts the door behind Lucas, grabs his face and plummets into his mouth.  Eliott’s lips have been longing to move the way they do, and Lucas has been longing to move him. He walks them further into the room, until Eliott nearly trips over a shoe on the floor.

He giggles and brings Lucas in closer, cradling his face to his neck. Lucas runs his hands into his open sweatshirt, around his back. “Hi,” Eliott breathes and rubs his face from his temple to his forehead, getting dissolving make–up on his nose.

“What are you doing here,” Lucas repeats and seeks his lips again. “Came to learn how to hunt?”

Eliott pulls at one of his faux-fur ears. “Caught you, didn’t I?” 

Lucas toys with the hair sticking down behind his earlobes, silently watching his face, before Eliott erases the slight gap between their lips. Licking into Eliott’s mouth is like a treasure hunt; leaving your lips shiny with satisfaction, but they’ve never had enough. Eliott holds on to him koala-like, letting him press them against the lockers.

Lucas registers that he’s still slippery wet from dancing when Eliott hands searches their way in under his t-shirt, up behind his shoulders and in slow diagonals to his front, pressing his thumbs along the heaving lines of muscle. It’s difficult to mind being disgusting, when Eliott rubs little circles down his stomach.

“You wonder why I came?” he asks. “Because I missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” Lucas manages to fumble into his kiss. Within the course of a few moments it’s evident where it’s headed. His libido could conquer all other Freudian fractions of his psyche, claim territory with Eliott as victorious accomplice. Lucas is ready for capitulation. Fragments of ideas start whirling around in his mind, like _how_ as in how to get closer and _where_ as in on the floor or up against the wall, as he gyrates his hips into him and feels Eliott respond. He wonders what’s in the cards for him, if three days of absence results in this achy reunion.

He tries to hold Eliott upright with a tight grip around his back when he starts coiling down his body, because he needs more affection and to just quickly double-check that he’s really there. He wants to kiss him and feel his dick harden against himself. Eliott perseveres and when Lucas resists; he takes him to the benches and Lucas’ legs folds when one of them hits the backside of his knees.

“Not going far, I’ll be right here,” Eliott says and squats down between his legs. He rolls up a little gap of pale skin from under Lucas’ t-shirt, puts his mouth to it and sucks.

“I’ve been dancing for over an hour straight,” Lucas protests feebly but combs his hand into Eliott’s hair anyway, already making an indecent tent of his shorts. In response Eliott drives his face into his crotch, rubs his mouth over his dick and then lifts his pants down over it, making Lucas curse with anticipation. Pointlessly, Lucas spares two seconds to look around the room. They’re alone and if that were to change, there’s nothing he could do about it anyway. There’s a perfect negative correlation between worries and the heat of Eliott’s mouth because he couldn’t give fewer fucks if anyone saw, when he parts his warm lips around his cock. He tips forward with the sudden burst of sexual titillation. Eliott looks up and brings a hand to Lucas’ chest, holding him back against the wall, stretching his torso out in front of him.

Lucas grabs the wood under him firmly as Eliott drops to his knees and lets him slide all the way in, sensing he’ll be ended quicker than he agrees to. He turns giddy with the notable realization that he sat almost exactly here, just a little more than a month ago, nervously trying to make conversation with Eliott. His speech ability currently no better, all he has to say is _Fuck, Eliott, you’re so good,_ while clinging to the bench until his fingers hurt. Eliott could coax an orgasm out of him in no time especially when he looks up at his face, cunningly and committedly sucking him.

The vision of Eliott almost proves too much, when he says “I can feel your heartbeat. Right here,” and licks along the protruding vein. “So strong.”

Lucas shuts his eyes in a commendable effort not to come prematurely. “You’re killing me,” he rasps. He didn’t dutifully save himself a staggering twenty-four hours just to be ended so embarrassingly quickly.

Laughter passes by. Eliott looks at the door and Lucas looks at him; one of the three has to move first but the echo dies down. After another moment of choked breathing, Lucas gets up and hauls Eliott to his feet. “In there,” he mumbles and pushes at him.

Eliott untangles himself from Lucas’ hands and moves backward. When he observes Lucas’ uninhibited stare, he grabs the hem of his own t-shirt with both hands and lifts it. He divulges himself deliberately slow, tightening the muscles in his torso with an equivocal grin. Then he throws the shirt at Lucas over his shoulder and retreats toward the showers.

“Shit, I’ve fallen in love with a stripper,” Lucas states and saunters after.

Eliott spins around and faces him. “What was that?”

“Or do you prefer _dancer_? Stripper might not be of the correct nomenclature. My apologies,” Lucas offers and pulls off his shirt, socks and shorts. He almost laughs when he feels the fox ears still peaking on his head and tugs them off brusquely, pulling out a few hairs from his scalp in the process.

“No I heard that, but what was the first part?” Eliott asks, unable to suppress the gleam that illuminates his face.

Lucas squints and mutters “You heard that, too,” then lunges into him, forcing him into a shower stall. “What’re you doing,” Eliott giggles and yelps; hurrying to pull off his pants, but Lucas is faster and turns on the water.

Lucas laughs at his fidgety struggle and then at his quick surrender, when it starts cascading down the fused column of their bodies. Eliott shakes his head but smiles, blinking away water drops.

Drunkenly horny, Lucas wants into his ruined pants and goes for the zipper in which might seem like an uncommon sequence of actions but the disorder makes perfect sense to him. Stilling Lucas’ hands, Eliott brings the left to his face and kisses its palm. “I need my boyfriend to support my vocation,” he says through the water. Zeroing in on Lucas’ face, he rakes his hair back and busies himself with the disobedient strands of hair that slides back over his forehead.

“Excuse me?”

“My vocation – my profession.”

Lucas steadies him against the wall. “Mmm. Yeah but,” he starts, intending to torment him, but Eliott kills the game instantly with tender fingertips to his cheekbones and two-word sincerity.

“My boyfriend.”

Swaying for a second, Lucas takes him in.  Eliott looks at him like he just revealed his deepest secret; a vulnerable testimony ready to be picked apart by misunderstanding or rejection. His insecurity is so unpredictable and brutally naked. The world is at his feet but he doesn’t understand that. _I’ll carry you like the last drop of water. Lovely fool._

Lucas kisses it better, feather light on his lips, until Eliott smiles and then gets impatient. “Take these off,” Lucas says quietly and tugs at his belt loops.

Eliott obeys and kicks his jeans into the corner and they capitulate before the amplification of need when his naked dick brushes against Lucas’. Lucas runs his hands voraciously over him; chest, stomach and butt. He kind of wants to go there again really bad, right into where he can fuse himself to his body, in and in, making Eliott cry out.

Eliott pulls off and reaches to the side, and suddenly everything is jasmine and his soapy hands to Lucas’ body. He clasps his hands on his head when Eliott says _Lift your arms_ and melts into the luscious slide over his skin, focusing on the concentrated little smirk on Eliott’s lips.

At first, Lucas doesn’t pay attention to his being maneuvered but is suddenly aware that things seem to be going in a new direction, when Eliott smoothly takes a step around and aligns behind him. He continues his slow care, rubbing sudsy, swirling patterns down his back before he disappears down. He gives an, in all honesty, below par bath to Lucas’ legs, in favor of the generously lavish one to his glutes; feeding the never-ending need to roughly massage, polish and cautiously search. He’s careful, but it’s still startling when he slides foamy fingers between Lucas’ butt cheeks. Lucas plants his hands to the wall and his head falls forward.

“It’s just me. My fingers,” Eliott comforts when he feels him tensing up. _Yeah, that’s exactly it_ , Lucas thinks, searching for his zen. “My tongue,” Eliott continues and puts his lips to the small of his back. He descends with languid kisses and when he gets close enough, points his tongue down into the cleft under Lucas tailbone.

To hell with the shackles of inexperience that tear him in the opposite direction of the sensation of Eliott’s oral love. Lucas wants to go further, to try everything under the sun and the moon, until the stars close in. He wishes he could see this and tries to look over his shoulder, but only catches Eliott’s hunched back and the abandoned locker room with forest green walls behind him.

He clenches his jaw against the pressing exposure when Eliott’s tongue probes him, and groans when he licks up his crack and then down again, repeatedly darting just barely into him. The fact that Eliott wants this is beyond and above him, but no one ever went after him the way Eliott does. Eliott more than wants it; he desires it, Lucas judges from the way he his fingers start to press into his hips and how he bites into his flesh.

Eliott replaces his tongue with a finger and rises up. His hand makes Lucas whimper and the process of surrender is uninhibitedly set in motion, because there’s no other way to go about this than to give in to the feeling; to let it feed on him.  Eliott’s mouth to his neck eases his strain but does nothing to relieve the pounding arousal that screams _let’s fucking go_.

Eliott pokes his nose into Lucas’ ear and croons _My little fox_ , smearing the remaining paint on his cheek with his thumb. Lucas’ whole backside tingles nervously, insinuatingly, knowing it’ll be subjected to Eliott. He heaves and surges against Lucas like a wet dream with long arms lingering into daylight, in entrancing locks around his body. His fingers graze Lucas’ aching cock but he leaves it; taking himself in hand instead. “Are you ready for me?” he says, rubbing the tip of his dick carefully between his butt cheeks and nudges closer to where he wants to go. “Because I’m so ready to fuck you.”

Lucas can’t merge his mind enough to answer but nods and widens his stance; yielding to the pressure of Eliott’s hand to his shoulder blade and props his chest up against the wall.

Eliott aligns his cock; eyes on them like a brand. “Come onto me,” he mutters. Lucas knows he has to give, otherwise Eliott will never manage to enter him. When Lucas finds equilibrium, enough to bear down and back on his dick, Eliott buckles forward and presses his forehead to his skull, panting wet breaths in the nape of his neck.

The concept of a discreet fuck self-dies instantly; it folds with that initial, searing satisfaction. Intense from the get-go, Eliott allows such short time before he shoves forward, sheathing himself fully. Lucas groans and grapples to adjust, finding a hot water pipe running vertically in the corner and hangs on to it even though it burns his palm.

“ _Merde_ ,” Eliott breathes and manipulates Lucas back and forth on his dick, rubbing them together. He pushes him up and into the tiles by his armpit in search of the best angle. When he finds it, he smacks one hand to the wall in front of them and grabs hold of Lucas’ hip with the other, and starts driving his cock into him steadily. Lucas wonders if he’ll ever fully get over how incredibly intrusive and overwhelming it is initially.

“Lucas. Lucas,” Eliott says through rough, hot puffs of air to his skin. “Will you forgive me if I can’t hold back?”

Lucas looks over his shoulder through streams of water. He smirks at the dripping disheveled Eliott who can’t keep still against him. Eliott slows down momentarily, but Lucas feels him twitching; wanting to lose himself in wildness and to give without restraint.

“Yeah, come on. Fuck me.”

Eliott stares at Lucas for a beat, before leaning over his shoulder, messily and hotly chasing his mouth. Lucas is just getting used to his impaling energy when Eliott ups the ante and fucks him with increasing strength, moaning across his lips.

He tugs Lucas’ hand from the pipe, panting _You’re gonna break it_ , and intertwines their fingers against the tiles, finding his dick with the other. Then Lucas gives up all attempts at leverage and just lets himself be ridden into the wall.

“Lucas,” Eliott says again but Lucas understands too late that he wants to say something. The tornado of pleasure unleashes and Eliott shudders, sobs a dripping _Fuck_ into his hair and comes with mouth-watering moans and thrusts them into another dimension. Lucas just needs a little bit more but is overtaken by Eliott’s full-throttle claim of his body and not until his groans quieten does he put his hand to himself. Eliott wants none of that, though, and swats Lucas’ hand away for his own, brings an arm around his chest and pulls them back under the steamy water. Still convulsing into him in aftershocks of his climax, he hugs Lucas close to his chest and strokes his cock.

Water runs over his face and into his mouth, while he listens to Eliott’s low-pitched, breathy awe. “So fucking good.” He quietens and swallows, running his face along Lucas’ neck. “You don’t even know,” he murmurs and bites down on his earlobe. But he’s wrong, Lucas does know because it’s fiercely reciprocal and unique, meant only for him and his lover. He opens his eyes and watches the beauty of Eliott’s hand devotedly handling him and he couldn’t hold back if he wanted to, only watch and whiningly hold on as finishes him.

 

Friday March 15. 20.50

 _l’École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris_ // you're just to good to be true

Afterwards, when they’ve hazily stumbled out of the mist and Lucas lends Eliott his sweatpants, it’s later than expected. Lucas runs the towel over himself and exhales. “Woah. I needed that,” he says, adding _I meant the shower, fucker_ at Eliott’s salacious little grin. With only ten minutes ‘til closing, he runs around with bare feet and dripping hair, picking up his things scattered over three quarters of the school. Eliott waits quietly on a bench, still only wearing Lucas’ undersized pants, when he returns.

Lucas shoves everything down messily into his duffel bag. Heading home in shorts will have to do because he didn’t bring another change; guessing today’s development would have been a stretch of his imagination. He looks up when Eliott doesn’t move.

“Hey. Get dressed?”

Eliott looks like he’s buffering a question and yanks Lucas closer by his hand when he rises up from his bag. “Let’s go to your place?”

Lucas steps in with a leg between his and cradles his head; surprised that Eliott feels that he even has to ask. Where else would they go? _You’ll stay with me_. “Anything you want.”

“I want that.” Eliott hugs his stomach and pushes his chin into it, looking up at Lucas.

“Romeo’s wish shall be my command,” he says ceremoniously and bows. Eliott grunts a laugh into his t-shirt and calls him a dork, which he only can agree with.

Then, Eliott turns serious again and watches Lucas from his place by his belly button. “I missed you,” he says and, nodding to the showers; “Not just what happened in there.”

The sky is turning cold. The city smells of dirt and fumes. A bit of dry, powdery snow falls but melts and floats away in gray little chunks in the gutters. Still, it’s possible to scoop a handful from the branch of a tree and squash into Lucas’ hair. It’s the kind of weather when you think you’re safe but suddenly the wind bites you, if you haven't wrapped your scarf properly or if you happen to wear shorts. Eliott talks about his mother, although he first says she bores him and wants to abandon the subject. They miss their bus stop and have to walk back approximately 751 meters, but none of them complain. Because Eliott is not a complainer and Lucas holds his hand. It makes him float between each step.


	21. Grand Allegro 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 20 recap: Lucas started rehearsing The Wind in the Willows and Eliott left town, much to his dismay. Luckily, he made amends for that a few days later. Lucas is slowly starting to grasp just how deep and hard he has fallen for Eliott. We're continuing down that road in chapter 21. Someone wondered if there will be drama or angst soon. The answer is yes. I can't be fucked to change the tags for each chapter but if would, they'd be ... boyfriends, boldEliott and... bareback.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm late! Without further ado, here's chapter 21. Enjoy!
> 
> ________________________________________________________________________________________________________
> 
> A little bit further ado:
> 
>  **Come talk to me on[tumblr](evestrand.tumblr.com)** ♥️
> 
> ________________________________________________________________________________________________________
> 
> Thank you, my beautiful betas. I owe you ♥️  
> 
> 
> Note that Lucas' thoughts, chat conversation and various French phrases and words are written in italics. I realize it may cause confusion, but I hope it won't. Don't hesitate to ask me if questions arise ♥️
> 
> This is part of a multichapter work that will update weekly. Until the end of time. Bisous (especially to my muses in SUF). Kudos and Komments are highly appreciated ♥️ 
> 
> Written with utmost respect for the creators and characters of the original work.

**Saturday March 16. 13.23**

_**the apartment //** _ **the best things in life are free  
**

The depth of his emotion warms. It’s vertiginous and fragile; what saves could hurt if the stars misalign. It grows each day, but does it ever stop? And would he even want it to? Maybe, he’d readily let it deepen until he drowned.

With a patchwork combination of clothes it looks like he put together in his sleep, Eliott sits by Lucas’ kitchen table dedicating himself to a bowl of cereal, just like he hadn’t turned a life around. Lucas watches him sidelong, waiting for the coffee to stop dripping. He has built a secluded refuge in Eliott's kiss, a nest that he refurnishes each morning. He is warm and long in Lucas' bed, when he’s sleeping with his arms flung above his head, looking so sexy and vulnerable that Lucas wants to both fuck and shield him. His newly awakened body is like putty in his hands, rolling around with him until it’s after lunch. Lucas loves his twitchy little movements against him while he strokes him. How he’s so calm and then goes frantic. He loves spending thirty minutes on all fours over him, edging him closer to the peak of pleasure until he almost cries from frustration, just to watch the trance build to ecstasy and sweep him up and he hears his own name vibrating on his tongue. He’s both a predator, and its prey. He’s Lucas' greatest gift and his Achilles heel.

Do other people feel this way, in their lifetime? Do they fall as recklessly head-over-heels and if so, were they alright?  How did they dare, knowing that they wouldn’t be the same on the other side of it? He goes into it with the partial resistance of a bud afraid to burst. It hurts, prickles and pushes, but can't be stopped.

When he has finished breakfast, Eliott rolls a cigarette. They’re not supposed to smoke inside, but Lucas will never tell him that.

 “Are you pretty close with her, then?” he asks when Eliott blames his bad throat on lengthy conversations with his mother.

Eliott puts his plate in the sink and nods. “Yeah. Pretty close.”

“What about your dad?”

“He hasn’t been around, for a while.”

Lucas senses there is more coming so he says nothing and pours water in the mug with honey, cinnamon and ginger which he has promised Eliott will alleviate the soreness.

“He doesn’t approve of my lifestyle.”

“Your lifestyle being?”

Eliott shrugs. “Dancing. That, and a strong liking for dick,” he says and Lucas kind of laughs at his colorful language, or at his conservative father, he’s not sure himself. “He’s the type who thinks he’s open-minded as fuck because he took the basic course in sociology at NYU. But he’s not.”

“Neither does he know what’s good in life,” Lucas smiles in his coffee cup.

Eliott snickers. "That's his loss.”

Lucas looks at Eliott for a moment, before he proceeds to ask; “When did you know?”

“Know what?”

“That you’re gay.”

“I didn’t say I was gay. I love whoever love chooses for me. I don’t care what they call themselves.”

Of course he’d be the type that doesn’t bother with labels. “It never happens the way you imagine beforehand, anyway,” he adds.

Eliott’s right about that. As warm, dry and concretely present as his fingers are when they interlace with Lucas’, as mystified is he with how this happened. They could have gone on forever as accidental strangers, having everything in common except time and place. Two resilient bodies with naked souls that never found their shelter.

Eliott looks as if he is about to say something profound. As Lucas pours more sugar in his coffee, he puts his chin on his shoulder. “I forgot my jeans in the shower.”

 *

Later, Eliott stands in front of the bookshelf in the living room. He takes out a few titles at random, skimming over their backsides. 

“Do you like living like this? In a coloc,” he asks and looks over his shoulder at Lucas, reclining in the sofa.

“It’s alright. I think I’d get bored, living alone. Plus, I didn’t have much of a choice," Lucas says. "When I wanted to move away from home, it was either this or… well, nothing.”

Eliott turns around and waits for him to continue. When he doesn’t, he sits down next to him in and starts toying with a strand of hair sticking out from Lucas’ neck.

“I came in on a scholarship. It was all thanks to my junior teacher. She made sure I applied.”

“She believed in you.”

“I guess. I’ve always felt like the ugly duckling, though. Either you have the family, or the money. Or both. That’s not my case,” Lucas explains, with some reluctance.

Eliott is quiet for a while. “Have you felt alone?”

“Some.” Lucas plops down with his head in Eliott’s lap when he leaves his hair and pulls at him.

“My mom was in Sadler’s Wells,” Eliott says.

“Really? Wow.” Any further elaboration would just be stating the obvious.

“In the _corps_ , but, sure. It’s not always better to have it in your family.”

Lucas looks up at him, while letting the new little pieces of Eliott consolidate, adding to the encyclopedic knowledge he aspires to build.  “Are they well off, your parents?”

“Kinda. I never had to think about it. You know, money. That’s the key difference I think.”

“Between what?”

“Between having and not having it. When you've got the money, you don’t even have to think about it. That’s the biggest privilege. When you don’t have it, you’re always aware that you don’t,” Eliott says. Then he studies Lucas’ face for some time, before puts his palms around it. “Ugly duckling. Not anymore, though.” He squirms down alongside him. When Lucas only shrugs, he interjects; “Look at yourself. Without preconceived ideas,” which sounds like a good idea in theory.  “You’re a swan now.”

Lucas hums and wriggles to make room for Eliott. “Maybe. If I can be Odile. Odette is too innocent.”

“Mmm. Yeah that doesn’t go well with you,” Eliott says and pushes in a leg between Lucas’.

“Who would we cast you as, though?” Lucas says and looks at him, deliberating. "Prince Siegfried?"

“Another visionary romantic," Eliott snickers.

Lucas shakes his head. "No. He's too bleak. I’m thinking Rothbart.”

“I’m not that close to retirement.”

“No. But you’d make a brilliant magician.”

 

**Saturday March 16. 17.13**

**_the apartment //_ séance de famille  
**

“Family meeting! _Allô_ , come to the kitchen, please!”

Lucas comes to after a nap lasting about two hours longer than intended. His bladder makes itself known and then the pressure of Eliott moving around, half draped over him. “Ouch, my neck,” he mutters and makes a half-hearted attempt at stretching it. He briefly tries to come up with a snappy response but only musters a grousing _No_ toward the kitchen.

“Shh, pretend to sleep,” Eliott whispers and shuffles around, pulling Lucas closer, when Mika shouts for them to _Come in here_ once more.

Lucas enjoys five seconds more before moving. “I would but I’m about to pee myself,” he says and gets up. When he has relieved himself he finds Eliott by the kitchen table, involved in something on the screen of Mika's phone.

“Come look. It’s close, but it’s pretty small.”

“Got more pictures of it?” Eliott asks and takes the phone.

“Yeah, just scroll. Manon, wake the fuck up! Get in here,” Mika hollers as Lucas sits down next to them.

She comes out of her room, but it’s not fully clear whether she’s awake or not. “God, what is it? It’s Saturday, can you chill?”

“It’s five o’clock. And this was your idea. Come here,” he says and makes room for her on his chair.

“Looks good,” Eliott says. “Fits the purpose.”

“I passed by this place by chance. Only problem is, it’s small. We can’t invite other people, only the inner circle.”

Manon sits down and looks at the photos of a nearby bar, unfrequented but accessible and above all, free for a rebellious, alternative celebration after the last performance of Romeo and Juliet in a mere seven days.

“But it’s going to be so boring if it’s just us,” she says.

“Excuse me, do you even know me?” When there’s no return fire, Mika concedes. “Fine, invite others but not too many. Anyway, the bar is staffed and that’s pretty much all we need. No formalities, no dress code, no speeches – absolutely no speeches. The point is, we’ll celebrate as we would if we were normal,” Mika concludes and everyone agrees although normalcy seems more of an abstract concept than ever. "They're set up for vinyls. It's pretty cool. But I guess we could just plug someone's phone, otherwise."

“Book it, then. And spread the word,” Lucas says.

Mika gives him a pointed look. “You’ve all gotta contribute there." 

"You run the jungle telegraph around here."

"And you're my errand boy. Thinking tonight will be a good opportunity to let people know. Are you coming?”

“Coming?” 

“Yes."

"Coming," Lucas repeats.

Mika sighs. "Yes. Ejaculating to Daphne’s.”

Lucas squints but it does nothing to translate Mika.

“It’s Daphne’s birthday today,” Manon says after a moment’s silence.

“I knew that. I just didn’t … whatever.”

“Totally,” Mika says. “Come on, bless us with an appearance.”

  
  


**Saturday March 16. Late**

**_Daphne’s place, Paris, France_ // liberté, égalité and slow dancing in a burning room**

The party is lavish, true to Daphne’s nature, but not in the posh rococo style of the school’s events that is developing into an allergen for the large majority of them. You can just tell that there’s a high liquidity rate behind it. And someone with a predilection for purple garlands, star shaped lights and confetti.  The hand that Lucas held on the way there would have been good for courage, when stepping into the already bustling event of her 18th birthday. But if it were still in his, the need for bravery would multiply. He makes his way into the evening with an empty hand and the feeling of a mixed blessing closest to his side. The kitchen is quieter than the rest of the place and that’s where he spots his friends. It’s too brightly lit by fluorescent lights but he quickly decides to stay. 

“I feel good about the fox. He’s me; I’m him.” Whatever their next challenge is, it always takes up so much resources, both mentally and bodily, that it’s impossible to avoid its nestling into conversation. The Wind in the Willows is no exception. 

“I see you’ve already gendered _him_ , at least,” Arthur says and Lucas makes a tired face at him.

“I think I know the fox a little better than you do. He’s a guy,” Lucas says and takes the joint from Yann when he offers it. “He’s a dad.”

“Yeah, I feel really right about being a toad as well,” Basile interjects. “And I mean wow, the character development?”

“You been type-cast, man,” Yann says and relights the joint. 

“Personally,” Eliott says, appearing from behind Lucas, rolling a cigarette of his own, “I just can’t wait to see you in full costume. Especially, the tail.”

“Is that a kink?” Arthur asks. “Finally, fuck work. Let’s talk for real.”

Eliott shrugs and leans against the kitchen counter opposing the one Lucas is sitting on, lighting the cigarette.  “I just want to pull it,” he says in that way that he has, that makes the most innocent utterance provocative but with words too well-chosen to be vulgar.

Lucas deflects embarrassment by biting down a grin and offering Eliott his beer. “What makes you think I’d let you?” He catches Eliott’s outstretched arm and reels him in, his back to his chest.

“Wasn't gonna ask,” Eliott retorts quietly and leans against him. 

Arthur raises a hand and groans. “Okay, somehow that got a bit too real,” he says with a grimace. 

“You’re cute,” Yann says, observing them. “A bit cheeky.” In the relative privacy of the kitchen, Lucas doesn’t mind being cute, cheeky or any other adjective thrown his way.  

“Did you mingle?” he asks Eliott.

“ _Oui_. There’s a lot of people here. Everyone.”

“We forgot to bring a present.”

“I gave her a hug. If you give her a kiss, I think we’re in the clear.”

“A kiss,” Lucas says and puts his cheek to his neck. “ I like that. Wrong mouth, though.”

He doesn’t know anymore, what people might have heard about them. Maybe it’s all over school already; Chloé might have cooked it up and served it as a public announcement, for all he knows. Or, maybe they haven't heard anything at all; maybe he overestimates the common desire for knowledge about his personal life. It could be either one, a little bit of both, or none. They definitely didn’t hear Eliott timidly bestowing Lucas with a name other than his given one in the school showers, but maybe it’s time they learn. 

Daphne finds their foggy hiding place and shoos them out, accusing them of turning her kitchen into a drug den. As soon as he exits the room, Lucas gets the ominous feeling that he really needs to step up his bravado. He needs to kiss Eliott, or somebody else will try their luck.

A girl says hi to Eliott and then _Hi, Lucas_ and he greets her politely but his repetition of _hi_ , _hi_ and finally _hey_ makes Eliott break into laughter which he tries to hide by turning his face away.

“What a conversationalist you are. You couldn’t remember a name if someone paid you to do it.”

“He’s hopeless. Don’t even bother,” Arthur says.

“I have selective deafness. It’s a recognized disorder.”

Eliott thinks that he wants to dance, does a silly twirl and grabs his hands when Lucas, shortly after sitting down in the living room, pulls him up and away toward a corner. But Lucas just wants to try something, anything; anything but inaction. In the end, denying your desire remains the same violation whether you’re denying it in front of others or to yourself. And inaction is just the quiet accomplice of denial.

“How are you feeling?” he asks Eliott and pulls at his hand, a little bit further away from the people.

“I feel,” Eliott smiles and follows the flickers of blue lights on Lucas’ face with his eyes; going after with a finger, like he’s trying to catch one of them. He looks high. “Butterflies.”

He hates the warm flush in his face. It makes him feel like a walking stop sign, when he needs his cool the most. “I meant your throat.” _Oh_ , Eliott mouths. Lucas stumbles onto the path he’s been trying to find, the one that leads to Eliott’s lips. As he does, it becomes perfectly clear to him that he has kept them both waiting.  The time for guesses and games is over when Eliott recognizes what he wants and angles his face down and lets him fall into the one unambigous act; the ultimate avowal. And it’s so heady to kiss Eliott publicly. There can’t be any rite of passage more sensually charged. The unrepentant demonstration gets him high, too, and he opens his mouth, inviting Eliott to a poorly concealed, slow burning frenzy. The kind of kiss where you end up having to try to hide what you feel because you’re not alone in the room but it’s blatantly clear between your lover and you; you're already unstoppably heading in the same direction. Eliott tastes like watermelon and when he opens his eyes Lucas sees what he feels in him. He’s taller this close, when he steps up and covers him; his shoulders obscure the silent questions directed at them from the room behind him. They have to hover until they’ve seen enough to answer themselves. 

 “Come on,” Eliott says into his mouth and pulls him out on the dance floor by the small of his back and he can feel him smiling.

When he finally tears himself off of Eliott, he feels like the room goes silent but that’s probably all in his head. With real or imaginary eyes burning in his neck, he exits for the bathroom and then goes for another drink, but that’s when fate catches up with him. He reaches into the ice bucket on the balcony when it appears. Everyone is there and not even Daphne’s mansion-like apartment can successfully postpone the crossing of his and Chloé’s paths.

“Hi,” he says when he sees her standing just to his left, smoking. When there’s no response, he looks up at her. “Hello? What, you’re not talking to me?”

“Sure. Hi,” she nods and leans on the balcony railing.

“I’m just trying to be ...nice.”

Chloé looks up at that. “Oh. A bit late for that, though.”

“I didn’t see you before,” Lucas says with a wave toward the apartment. “You could’ve said hello, too.”

“I would have, but you had your mouth full.” Chloé turns to him and blows out a cloud of smoke in his direction. “Would it kill you to be a little discreet?”

It takes a moment before he digests the surprise. “I’m not going to hide,” he says then, with more confidence than he feels and continues looking for watermelon in the tank of melting ice cubes.

“Lucas,” she says, and he tenses up; he knows that fine-print, first-name omen.  “It’s not about that. You cheated on me. And now, I have to watch you shove your tongue down his throat,” she continues and gesticulates to the living room.

“What are you talking about?” he says and bites back surging annoyance.

“I’m just trying to breathe.”

“So am I.”

There’s a brief mutual silence before Eliott approaches. He bends and looks for a beer behind Lucas. “Yo, Capulet,” he says, flicking the cap off a bottle by a steady hit of his palm to it against the rim of the bucket. “What’s up?”

It’s unnerving  to watch Chloé’s expression shift. “You again,” she says.

“Wow,” Eliott snickers and drinks. “Why don’t you tell me how you really feel?”

Chloé won’t move or budge. She was there first.  “You seem intelligent. You can’t tell?”

As flattered as Lucas really fucking is by Eliott’s imposing jealousy, a confusing sense of responsibility inevitably falls on him. “Let’s go,” he says and goes inside, but has to return and nudge Eliott when he doesn’t comply. “Hey. Come on.”

Lucas doesn’t mind any reason for getting out of there with him. “She’s gonna try to strangle you at some point if you don’t stop provoking her. She can be plenty crazy, just by herself.”

Eliott pulls up the hood of his jacket and steps out into the night with him. “Yeah? You should tell her the same thing.”

 

**Sunday March 17. 01.44**

**_the apartment_ // nature feels**

One nocturnal escape from people - leaving crossing trails from an improvised choreography in the snow; an endless knot through the twentieth arrondissement - and thirty minutes later, Lucas turns the key in the lock and lets Eliott and himself into the apartment.

“Do you want something? Maybe tea?” he says when Eliott sits down on the kitchen table and rubs his hands together, blowing into them.

“I’m okay.”

Lucas covers his fingers with his own because he’s always warm. “If you need something, you can just-”

“Mmm,” Eliott says and tousles his hair. “I’ll call for nurse Lallemant”

Lucas scoffs and frees himself from Eliott's arms. “You wish. I was gonna say _help yourself_.” He opens the fridge and scans it for something drinkable.

“Hey,” Eliott says and casts his gaze down when Lucas turns to him. Then he gets up and comes close.

“ _Coucou toi_ ,” Lucas says when Eliott stalls.

“It’s the sweetest thing, how you … are, with me. Nobody ever cared about me like you do. I mean, nobody.”

“It’s nothing,” Lucas says and averts his eyes.

“Maybe to you, it isn’t.” Eliott looks at him so intensely; Lucas is helplessly drawn to his face. How nobody cared about him is a mystery and a wrongdoing. What Eliott needs, Lucas has in abundance. He has had to care so much for himself, but it was never as satisfying. One always takes oneself for granted.

“I meant, that it’s natural.”

Eliott moves in and enfolds him. _Natural_ , he says as if testing whether the word sustains, coming from his mouth as well.

“Yeah, natural,” Lucas says and pulls him down with a hand to his cheek. 

Eliott closes the refrigerator door behind Lucas and responds to the kiss in a way that reminds of the soft, pulpy part of a fruit, but firm and demanding all the same. An identical thought seem to reach them at the same time. “It’s just you and I here,” Eliott says and smoothes his hands from Lucas’ face to his neck.

“Yeah.”

With a gentle impulse and Eliott’s hand cradling Lucas’ head, their dance-like traversal continues, from the street, through the kitchen, across the living room floor. Eliott moves toward Lucas’ room but he redirects him, he’s got something in mind and the sofa is made for it. _Who_ , he comments on Eliott’s giggly protest and reminder of Mika.

Eliott falls back, supine and anticipating, and pulls Lucas with him. When he opens his knees wider, Lucas rolls in between them, instantly racing to the next level. It’s impossible to curb the instinct to try and fuck him through his clothes, when he feels his erection fill up and cut through the denim so deliciously.

Everything is foreplay forever and Eliott’s sandy-strawberry pout of lips but Lucas has been fantasizing for the better part of a week and waiting for the better part of an eternity. He wants more; everything. He wants to fuck him face to face until he forgets his own name.

Eliott is a landscape of moving lust under him, wanting him to cross his borders; to cause a riot and set fire to his grounds. Lucas barely believes how he became someone with access to the corporeal beauty beneath him. _But you better believe it, idiot, and do it justice. Not just mindlessly indulge and wallow around in it like last time._   

He sits back on his knees and pulls off Eliott’s t-shirt and when he falls back down, shirtless and stretched out in front of him, Lucas has to decelerate. Eliott gets impatient shortly and thumbs the button of his jeans, but Lucas is busy with the flickering insight that he doesn’t love Eliott in spite of him being a man; he loves _that he is_ a man. The realization is so plain and true. He craves his jawline, his shoulders, the muscles that stretch along the back of his ribcage giving his upper body the shape of a capital V; all things undeniably, artlessly, naturally masculine about him. He follows the slanting contours from his hip bones to the groin with his fingers, back and forth, inching closer to the holy grail of his body. Eliott stares at his hands, quietly urging them to go where he wants them.

When Lucas unzips him, Eliott looks down at himself. “Look what you’ve done,” he says and thrusts against his fingers when he passes them over his cock. Lucas is looking, staring, going cross-eyed. His potent desire must shine through as he works his own jeans open, because Eliott responds to it and  shoves his hips up again, accentuating himself.

Lucas snaps out of his reverent musing and puts his hands on each side of him, hovering over his crotch.  Eliott chokes a little whine and curses as he licks a deliberate line over his underwear, all the way up to his stomach. Lucas tries to stifle a smirk at his impatience; he must have rubbed off on him. Freeing him from his briefs, he lets him watch as he wets his lips and parts them against his cock. Hair falls down over Lucas’ forehead, Eliott combs it away and keeps his hand on his head.

“Fuck, I can’t watch,” he growls after a moment and shuts his eyes, inhaling and exhaling slowly.

Lucas keeps him enveloped in in his lips. He paints long, loving strokes over his dick with the tip of his tongue until the direction of pressure from Eliott’s fingers change and he navigates him off his cock with a breathy moan. He rises up to his knees and gets Eliott, who squirms to help, and then himself naked, with the exception of one sock that he doesn’t have time for.

“Come here. Like this,” Lucas says and pulls at his hand.  

Eliott moves up but gets distracted on the way, pulling him close by his hands on his butt, kissing his abdomen. His fingers are so greedy and start searching at once but Lucas stills him and strokes his hair before taking his hand again, guiding him to where he wants him.

Eliott sinks down on his knees over Lucas’ body, tall and wonderfully nude. “You wanna fuck me?” he says, and Lucas’ response is so self-evident. _Yeah, I wanna bury myself in you and not come back until the afterlife_ . Eliott doesn’t let him answer, though; he pushes his head against the backrest with his kiss and Lucas grabs around his back with his whole arm, bringing him closer. _Ride me_ , he murmurs partly in his mouth and Eliott deepens the kiss. He’s wanton and open, and he focuses only on Lucas.

What happens in the next few moments seem chimerical to him. At first he’s lost. Knowing he has to smoothen the way for Eliott and saliva is all he has to offer, he pushes his wet fingers blindly in under him. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he mutters and searches Eliott’s face for guidance.

“Yes, you do,” is all Eliott says, breathing deeply above him.

Then Lucas sinks further down on the sofa but moves his hips up, trying to direct his dick into him, thinking that he’s already too revved up but there’s no help for that now.

Eliott slows him down, and says “Let me show you. Nice and slow is the name of this game.”

With mouth open and mind blown, he sits frozen in place but afire as Eliott starts inching down on him. He’s serene and strong but Lucas feels him straining, he digs his fingers into his shoulders so that it hurts, but all’s fair in love and war. He wishes he knew how to make it easier but can’t think of a single thing, only to caress his back, lightly up and down. When Eliott sinks down deeper and breathes shuddery heated air along his neck, pleasure starts to infiltrate him at the cost of responsiveness.

“Keep still,” Eliott hisses in Lucas’ ear when he tries to shove himself even deeper, and he closes his eyes for self-control. Centimeter by aching centimeter, Eliott drives himself down all the way, groaning and winding his arms around Lucas’ shoulders. 

It feels like he might strangle his dick with his body when he starts moving, Lucas has to squint against the pressure. “God, fuck, fuck,” he rambles and lets his head fall back against the cushion. _Yeah_ , Eliott breathes and returns to his mouth, kissing him through the slow surge and fall of himself on Lucas’ body.

He pulls off his lips and Lucas watches him move, transcendently soaring and beautiful. Eliott breathes quietly, deep in concentration but successively harder; it’s a hypnotizing euphony. Lucas loves how he’s natural and lacks inhibition, but even in the bliss of fucking him, jealousy threatens in the periphery of his consciousness. He can’t think about how experience must have nourished his open mind and body because it brings about imagery that is all too vivid. Maybe Eliott sees his struggle, because he puts a hand under Lucas’ chin, saying _Look at me_. He starts to ride him harder, making it impossible to be anywhere else than right there, with him.

Lucas heart drums in his ears. In spite of not being completely foreign to the ways in which men can make love to each other, the thought of this has never occurred to him, not even in his fantasies, before meeting Eliott. This position, it wouldn’t have seemed physically possible, but it is. Entirely possible and impossibly good.

He strokes his back, down and up, and then down, gripping his butt. He finds the place where he enters Eliott’s body, feeling his dick plowing into him. It makes him claw at Eliott’s back and buck forward instinctively, almost toppling him over, off of him.

“You like that?” Eliott asks, but Lucas has moved far beyond liking. What he feels is of a different nature, one more colorful and warm-blooded.

Who’s doing what and its connotations diffuse, because even though he puts himself in Eliott, all the way in as far as he can go, he’s the one getting fucked to the point that the springs of the sofa complain. With him, is the first time he so turbulently became one with someone. Apparently, agonizingly good things come to those who wait. 

“Yeah,” Lucas pants and holds onto Eliott’s thighs while his weight rhythmically and unwaveringly forces him down into the cushion. He starts giving back carefully. Finally, he can give into the hedonistic itch of driving his dick into him and it makes Eliott groan and bore his forehead into his. “You’re so fucking tight,” Lucas says and starts moaning, palpitating closer to the crescendo with each movement.

“Stay with me.” Lucas knows that what Eliott initially meant was _Don’t come_ , and while he truly only needs his eyes to speak, he puts all words on Lucas’ lips until their meaning metamorphoses. “Stay with me,” he says again.

Lucas nods, “ _Oui_.”

“Stay with me.”

“I’m staying with you,” Lucas gasps uncoordinatedly, because it’s getting difficult to speak. Eliott smiles with his face right above his, his breath erratically warming his face and all he can do is receive and hang on to him, while with growing effort trying to stave off orgasm. Eliott gets so intense; Lucas can’t hide under his bright starry-eyed, penetrating stare. He feebly tries to gain mastery of himself and shut up, but it’s on his tongue and then Eliott’s lips draw it from his before he knows it.

“I love you, Eliott.” He never intended to say it lust-driven but he’s losing sight of what he’s told himself, losing it somewhere between them both. He could burn new stars into the ancient sky when Eliott halts, pushes one hand behind his head and says, “I love you, too.” Lucas tries to hide close to his face, he just wants to find temporary pardon from vulnerability, but Eliott pulls back and catches him. He puts his thumbs to his cheek bones and studies Lucas’ face. “Lionheart.”

The quavering breaths still and Lucas tries to rein in his emotion. He watches Eliott smile, an enamored, vibrant little ray of light in his face. Lucas has made him happy; he’s happy with him. For some reason, it almost breaks his heart.

Eliott kisses him long and still, playing with the hair in the nape of his neck. Lucas leans into it, gratefully fondled back to earthy sex and to moving with him. He slides his fist down over Eliott and puts the other one on his hip, starts thrusting hard and close into him. Eliott doesn’t know what to do with himself; his body wants to thrust and ride at the same time when Lucas pumps his dick faster.

He keeps his eyes fixed on Eliott; he doesn’t miss a second as rapturous chaos starts to spread in him. “Fuck that’s so good, so good,” Eliott gasps and Lucas plants his feet firmer on the floor, pushing up, giving it all to Eliott. He wants to keep watching him longer but the tightness gets too excruciatingly good and when the curtains close before his eyes, it’s beyond his control.

Suddenly, Eliott bends forward in a tight arch, threatening to choke Lucas with his grip around his jaw and neck. He thrusts furiously, whimpers and curses over again and Lucas follows; letting control slip and himself fly. When Eliott’s dick pulses in his hand, he drives himself into him as deep as he can, and then everything culminates.

*

Lucas sits statically, hands grasping and slipping on Eliott, holding him as still and close as he can until everything is siphoned out of him.

“God.” Eliott has collapsed on him, emptied of energy, sweat and sperm. If he was smaller, he might have crawled all the way up against him and asked to be carried.

Lucas has to twist his neck to look at him; resting his head in the crook of his neck. “Yes. What is it?”

“You’re funny, too.” Eliott snickers, wiping sweat off his forehead on Lucas’ shoulder. He pulls back, exhausted but smiling.

“Shit,” Lucas says and sprawls out against the sofa. “Is that your idea of nice and slow?”

“It was a new rendition.” Eliott moves further back and tilts his head. He stares and flutters over Lucas’ face at length. He finally says _What_ , but then Eliott is already moving. “You’re perfect like this,” he says.

Lucas grabs for him hurriedly, whimpering _No no, don’t go_ and groans when the air of the living room swathes his dick instead of Eliott. “Fuck, what’s the rush?” Lucas witnesses himself on his back; present in the red grazes of his fingers, as Eliott disappears into the bedroom. When he returns, he’s holding Lucas’ Nikon, fiddling with the settings. Naked as he came.

“Where’d you find that?”

“In you room. Do you mind?”

Lucas looks at him with intrigued suspicion. “Depends.”

“I can’t let this moment slide by,” Eliott says. He raises his eyebrows and watches Lucas, before lifting the camera.

Lucas considers his overall physical condition; ninety-nine point nine percent naked, sperm splattered over his torso and hair standing. He runs his hand through it, as if that would make any difference. “Hey. Like this? I’m naked.”

“Like that.”

 _As long as you don’t put it on Instagram_.

“It’s just that,” Eliott continues, “I have an eye for beauty.”

“Let me guess,” Lucas says. “You’re into Robert Mapplethorpe.”

Eliott takes a photo and smirks. “Who isn’t?” Looking at the display, his smile disappears and is replaced by something solemn. “This is you,” he says. “And me.”

 


	22. Grand Allegro 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 21 recap:  
>  Last chapter was pretty emotional, at least for me and the Élu in my head. I'm a bit tired so I'll make it easy for myself, here's a list:  
>  \- Chloé doesn't appreciate Eliott (for obvious reasons)  
>  \- Eliott doesn't appreciate Chloé (because she interferes and, in my mind, that in turn makes him a little bit insecure and uncertain about Lucas' relaionship to girls, being his first guy and all  
>  \- Mika found a place for the party they're throwing after their last performance of Romeo and Juliet  
>    
>  \- Lucas ♥️ Eliott

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **I asked a brilliant artist to draw something for a particular scene in this chapter and I adore it. Have a look on[tumblr](evestrand.tumblr.com)** ♥️
> 
> Thank you, my beautiful betas. I owe you ♥️  
> 
> 
> Note that Lucas' thoughts, chat conversation and various French phrases and words are written in italics. I realize it may cause confusion, but I hope it won't. Don't hesitate to ask me if questions arise ♥️
> 
> This is part of a multichapter work that will update weekly. Until the end of time. Bisous (especially to my muses in SUF). Kudos and Komments are highly appreciated ♥️ 
> 
> Written with utmost respect for the creators and characters of the original work.

**Sunday March 17. 08.17**

**_the apartment_ // loopy**

Still filtering the daylight, Lucas turns over to his right. He opens one eye and squints. Everything is quiet inside, but outside the day is dawning fitfully. Little sounds of ordinary life sneak in, muffled through the unsealed window and dark blue curtains. Eliott sleeps with his head on his hands, pressed together under his cheek. Stretched out like the horizon, unaware and warm. He twitches and stirs when Lucas rubs his thumb over the wet little spot of saliva on the back of his hand.

“Shh. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

Eliott blinks and flips over, half-covering Lucas. “ _ Bonjour _ .”

“You can go back to sleep.”

“Time ‘s it?”

“Early.”

Eliott grunts and stretches, returning to Lucas’ body. He taps his fingers over his ribs, huddling closer. “You were talking in your sleep,” he says after a moment.

“Really?” Lucas only remembers going to bed, getting up, retrieving clothes from the living room and then down and out. No dreams. “What did I say?” he says and insists when Eliott is reluctant, claiming he doesn’t want to embarrass him.

“You said… _ Eliott. You’re the man of my dreams. I promise to make you coffee every morning. And fruit loops- _ “

“Right.” Lucas tugs him closer and shakes his head. “You must’ve been dreaming.”

“I know what I heard.”

“Yeah, well… I’m not gonna make you coffee every morning.”

“No? And what about fruit loops?”

“Neither.”

“So you lied,” Eliott says and looks up at him.

Lucas smiles coyly and pushes his head down to his shoulder again, throwing one leg over his. “Sleep.” Eliott’s body makes him become one with the bed again. “I’ll do it sometimes,” he says after a while.

**Sunday March 17. 14.39**

**_the apartment_ // you what?**

“It’s good. I think that you just need more energy in the preparation.” Six hours later, the day has surely started everywhere including the rest of the apartment but laziness lingers in Lucas’ bedroom. Eliott shows him what he calls  _ the combination from hell _ ; a series of clips of himself, practicing triple  _ tours en l’air _ with  _ arabesque _ landing, again and again until he lays down on the studio floor in exhaustion. “Can you go back to the last one? There, it looks like you’re hesitating.”

“I was thinking too much. It happens, sometimes.” Whatever the combination, finding the perfect balance between attention and intuition is key. Too much focus cripples; too little distracts. Some days there’s just no way to pin it down.

“Stop dissecting it,” Lucas says when Eliott rewinds again. “It’s good enough. You do it better than anyone else. Did somebody coach you?”

“Not here,” Eliott says. He starts playing the clip again but shuts the phone down shortly. “Not in Paris.”

Lucas phone vibrates and Eliott feels around in the covers under himself for it. Finding it, he groans and drops it on Lucas’ stomach. “What’s her issue, anyway? She a bit slow on the uptake?” he says, eyes wandering from the display to the ceiling.

Lucas opens the conversation with Chloé while Eliott examines the plafond silently. “Don’t worry about her. She just wants to talk,” he says.

“I just want her to be quiet.”

“She probably just wants to tell me I’m an asshole again.” He closes his phone and tries to get Eliott to look at him. “I think she feels you stole me from her.”

Eliott considers that and nods after a while “I get that.” He turns into Lucas’ body again; nose to his chest. “I hope she feels I took great pleasure doing it, as well.”

Lucas snickers and runs his hand through Eliott’s hair, pulling just a little bit. “I’ll ask her.”

“Thanks, let me know.”

“But you know, it’s not- you don’t have to worry about it,” Lucas says, unsure of how to finish the sentence. “Even if it was someone else. I’m not sure- I don’t think girls do it for me. Any girl.”

Eliott waits for more, but that’s all Lucas can tell him at the moment, it really is.

“So, when did you know?” Eliott asks after a beat of silence.

“Know what?”

Eliott speaks with deliberation. “That you nurture a special appreciation for the masculine.”

Lucas’ eyes wander along his naked backside; legs forever, tight butt and broad shoulders. Well. “I don’t know,” he says. “Happened bit by bit.” Bit by bit overnight. That’s not entirely true but things definitely fast-tracked when Eliott crossed the Atlantic Ocean.

“But not that long ago, right?”

“Not that long ago.” Lucas works the pillow a bit, and finally puts an arm under his stiff neck. He should probably get up and stretch, soon. “I used to believe that I liked girls but that I hadn’t figured it out, like others had.”

Eliott makes a little tower of his fists and rests his chin on it. “Mmm.”

“Something like that,” Lucas continues. “Used to think it was just that, for the longest time. Until I was so pissed with you one day, that I slept with Manon. Then, I knew for sure it wasn’t the same,” he says with a rapidly fading laughter, when Eliott’s expression changes.

“You what?” He doesn’t see the fun in it.

Lucas almost goes on to say he was drunk, just to realize he actually wasn’t.

Eliott sits up and frowns. “Manon? Wait,” he says when Lucas talks.

“It was a mistake.” 

“You needed it for comparison, or what?”

“But, no!” Lucas wouldn’t do something like that, almost certainly, and gets annoyed by the question. Eliott disentwines from Lucas’ attempts at contact, and he backpedals. “It wasn’t like that. It was before I knew what was going on with us. And we had fought. And you were still with Lucille. I was all fucked-up about that.”  _ And tremendously jealous about that gorgeous dick-head artistic leader of yours that you had to tell the whole internet about _ , it says in an embarrassing message from his consciousness.

“So you tried to be worse than me?”

“I tried to be with you. But I didn’t have you. All I had was-“ He interrupts himself, nearly adding  insult to injury by mentioning Manon again.

Eliott rubs his forehead and throws his legs over the edge of the bed. “I didn’t need to know.” He dresses himself in sweats and t-shirt; quiet, but so palpably irked that Lucas is afraid to open his mouth again. He feels so lousy, for doing it and now also for saying it, that he wouldn’t blame Eliott if he left. “You know. For someone who says girls don’t do it for him, you sure did many of them.”

“Eliott,” Lucas tries as he walks out of his room. He turns over on his stomach and stares out through the gaping door, waiting for the one to the apartment to slam shut. But it doesn’t. When he pads by the living-room Eliott is reclining in the sofa, working the remote intensely. Lucas lingers by the door even though he’s being ignored. Eliott is a silent poet of emotion, writing words with his eyes. Happiness; sadness; pleasure, hate; there’s room for it all in them. But there’s no room for Lucas’ next to him. He looks angry enough to fight him, if he wanted to. But he doesn’t, he just wants to be left alone.

**Sunday March 17. 17.54**

**_the apartment_ // mea culpa**

Lucas leaves Eliott be, for an hour that stretches into two, and then three. It’s difficult. The sole reason that he doesn’t stride into the living room and yells is that he doesn’t want to make things worse. Lucas had thought Eliott would see it the way he does; a desperate measure called by desperate times that only served to prove that he already had ruined him for everyone else.

Having Eliott transmitting irritation as opposed to affection is exhausting. There’s no way to duck it. Usually, Lucas knows if he’s right or wrong. But now, it doesn’t even matter. In addition to driving him half-way insane by not uttering a word in his direction, Eliott has made it impossible to be annoyed with him by falling asleep, curled up into a ball on the sofa. Lucas had spurred up the spirit to suggest a humble reconciliatory shower together, but then settled for draping a cotton blanket over him instead.

He enjoys turning the bathroom into a steam sauna, heating his winter pale skin until it flushes in scattered patches of pink roses. The warmth is too mollifying to refuse. It satiates his body, making it ductile and responsive again. Since childhood, he has gotten yelled at a lot by his friends, and sometimes abandoned by the same, in school for lolling behind in the showers after class. Hoping no one else has to use it for a while, or they’ll be in for a cold surprise, he steps out on the bathroom rug and dries himself.

“It’s unlocked,” Lucas says and opens the door, when Eliott knocks and asks if he can come in. He is a little hunched on himself and squints against the light. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“Smell sample. You passed.”

“Really?” he says, rubbing his eyes, scowling when he sees Lucas’ smirk in the mirror.

“You were sleeping so good. Like a baby.”

Eliott pops the joints in his neck. “I feel a hundred years old.” Then he falls silent.

Lucas doesn’t want any more silence; he wants to evoke his unspoiled laughter and if he can’t have that, then at least he needs the sound of his voice in some other way. “Take a shower, it’ll help maybe?” he tries.

Eliott nods but otherwise looks as foggy as the rest of the room.

“Although, you might have to wait a bit. I think I used all the hot water,” says Lucas and runs the towel over his face, turning to him. “Sorry.”

Eliott leans back against the wall and shrugs. “I’m not in a hurry,” he says after a while. Wearing only water drops and self-awareness, Lucas follows the trajectory of his eyes to his body. Eliott isn’t embarrassed to stare at Lucas naked, at length. He just does it. Even when potentially pissed, vacillating by the door, he’s an influx of color to Lucas’ mind. A deep red fantasy, dark blue distance and cloudy gray intentions. His dick twitches with Eliott’s shameless fixation. “How was it?” he says, momentarily shifting his eyes to Lucas’ face with a smirk.

“Was what?”

“The shower. Was it good?”

Lucas moves the towel over his chest one last time. After some indecisiveness, he lets it fall to the floor. Eliott is suddenly piercingly focused; vulpine eyes skate over Lucas’ legs, stomach, like he’s contemplating where to best make an incision. But it always returns; drawn back to his dick. Helplessly, Lucas starts to fill up. “Er-“ he starts and nods but he has nothing; nothing to say except  _ Yea, this is the influence you exert, if you ever doubted. _ Eliott lures him into prickling liveliness with his eyes only, they are just as persuasive as his tongue.

“So you’re all warm and gooey, now?” Eliott asks, clearly unable to sense the tightening in Lucas’ core but he must see what he’s doing to him. He pushes off the wall and moves closer, but still tortures him with distanced focus.

Fascinatedly, Lucas lets it develop, stark naked and staring, alternatingly at Eliott or himself until his cock stands guard along his stomach. Eliott clicks his tongue and shakes his head, when he instinctively puts a hand on it. “Don’t touch it.” Lucas doesn’t know how to act when Eliott gets demanding. He just tries to pay attention through his need and bring it to fruition; to follow along without taking over.

“Relaxed? Eliott continues. He watches him calmly, barely noticeably rubbing his lips together while looking him up and down. Lucas is all ears as to what his fucking plan is here, but shuts up. It’s starting to itch in him. “Receptive?”

Manon’s laughter fluctuates through the wall, high-pitched and happy. Lucas silently curses her sense of timing and scans Eliott’s reaction. There’s nothing he can do about Manon. She’s going to laugh sometimes. But Eliott is indifferent and says nothing about it, just steps up the staring game.

He skims his fingers along Lucas’ dick, feathery and evading when he tries to lean into it. “Eliott,” Lucas says and puts his own hand back on himself.

“Don’t touch it.”

Lucas smothers a groan. “Okay, you do it.”

Eliott squats down slowly, deaf to Lucas’ insistence. “Look at you,” he says and follows his own advice, from Lucas’ hips to his dripping hair. “I could eat you up.”

“Go ahead,” Lucas says, mouth opening and eyes closing when Eliott’s tongue curls out under his dick, just for them to fly open again seconds later when nothing happens.

"Guys," the outside of the bathroom says. “Other people live here. Other people need to pee.”

“In a minute,” Lucas shouts.

“Hurry,” Manon begs and her footsteps fade.

Eliott laughs quietly and kisses Lucas’ hipbone before standing up. Lucas heaves a sigh and notices that he has started to sweat. “Next time you’re pissed with me,” Eliott says, stroking out salty water drops on his shoulder, “you don’t go into her bedroom. You stay right where you are, and you remember this.”

**Sunday March 17. 20.55**

**_the apartment_ // hide and seek**

Being told what to do has always been difficult for Lucas. You’d think differently, given the ten years of ballet training that he has subjected himself to. It’s even worse when it’s well and truly earned. When Eliott left him in the bathroom, standing there like a fuming question mark with a hard-on, his first instinct was to run after and attack him. Indeterminately between aroused and humiliated, he takes a bit longer than he has to when packing his bag for Monday, carefully sorting out the right attire for class from bags of clean laundry. Lucas is salty but either way, Eliott could besides kicking his blood pressure into full gear probably also get him to sing and dance for him, if it would have cheered him up. Familiar habits don’t prevail, when it comes to him.

He cooks and puts a plate of food in Eliott’s hands, which he eats sitting on Lucas’ bed. After a little more brooding and a cigarette by the window, he’s defrosting. Lucas tries to study in the kitchen, but is too dejected and impatient to focus.

“Lucas,” Eliott says, and he tries not to run into the room.

“ _ Oui _ ?” he says from the door.

Eliott has undressed himself of shirt and socks, and has a magazine with the cover facing up on his leg. If he knows what he is to the human eye, he must still forget it a lot. He moves around and says  _ Come? _ when Lucas is slow.

Needing nothing more, Lucas props a pillow up behind them and leans back with him. “Hi.”

“I’m sorry,” Eliott says and lets himself be encircled and brought close. They sit like that, quietly, for a while. “But, I hate the thought of you with someone else,” he muffles in, somewhere between the pillow and Lucas’ shoulder.  “It should be forbidden.”

He hushes Eliott and searches his face, but then he lifts up the hem of Lucas’ t-shirt, bends down and escapes in against his stomach. “ _ Allô _ , stop hiding.”

“I’m tired of them.” Eliott’s breaths flicker in the downy trail of hair, running from his chest all the way down into his shorts.

“Of who?”

Eliott digs his head deeper in under his shirt. He doesn’t reply and doesn’t have to. After a little struggle to maneuver him out, Lucas angles Eliott’s face up to him. “There’s just us.”

Eliott tips his head back and searches his lips, softening so instantaneously that Lucas thinks that he should have come in there earlier, pushing himself on Eliott before he called for him. He puts him under himself and proceeds to kiss any remaining doubt away.  _ Je t’aime _ , he says and is rewarded by Eliott locking his arms and legs around him.

*

Lucas eyes become heavy shortly after lying down. “What were you reading, before?”

Eliott shows him the front cover of the magazine.  “It’s about a band that nobody heard of until a street musician played their songs.”

“I took out my lenses.” Lucas squints at the article and gives up.

“Want me to read to you?” Eliott pushes an arm under Lucas’ neck, turns over and puts the journal in front of them both. “You can’t help that you’re blind.”

Lucas stifles a yawn. “ _ Oui _ . But I’m gonna fall asleep if you do.”

“Did you already prep for tomorrow?” Eliott asks, and moves about behind him, pushing his pillow closer. “I need to go home at some point.”

Lucas looks back over his shoulder. He has forgotten to remember that Eliott doesn’t live there. It happened so traitorously quickly. As soon as Eliott stepped into that space that was his, waiting for him, everywhere; even in the apartment, Lucas started forgetting that he will step out of it at times. He has been consumed by living it; enthralled with all little details and the large sweeping whole of having him there. His jacket on a hook in the hallway; his incredible, amused laughter and boundless sex. “And then at some point come back,” Lucas says.

Eliott lies down behind him. “I need my stuff.”

“You can borrow my dance belt?” Lucas offers.

“Yeah, but… I can’t dance, wearing only your belt.”

“Says who?” Lucas says indignantly. “Give me their name.”

Eliott chuckles and pulls him closer to his chest. He quietens and suckles lightly on the skin of Lucas’ shoulder, mind somewhere else. If Lucas turned around, he knows he’d find him in thoughts. “But I’ll come back.” The magazine falls to the floor. Eliott rubs a finger over the tip of his tongue and looks at it. “Have you noticed that the ceiling is falling in? Not right now,” he laughs when Lucas twitches in alarm and looks up from the pillow. He pinches a little grain of white insulation that has snowed down on Lucas’ shoulder from the crack in the paint above and sticks his finger in front of his face.

“Oh, that.” Lucas sits up and inspects the roof the best he can, in spite of relative blindness. “It comes down in bigger chunks when we make the bed hit the wall.”

Eliott snickers and puts a hand to the small of his back, working his way down into his shorts. “I knew I was fucking with disaster.”

“Clever.”

“Can’t think of a better way to go, though.” Eliott pulls Lucas down on him.

“I should repaint it,” he says. “With something nice. I like the way you’ve done it above your bed. It’s creative,” he continues and stretches, covering Eliott from neck to feet. “I read that collection you sent, by the way, with the poem from your ceiling. But I liked another one of them better.”

“You read it?”

“Well, yeah,” Lucas points toward the bookshelf and  _ Poetry in Translation _ . “All of them written by dudes, except one, by the way. Sexist,” he says and then  _ Pardon, pardon _ , when Eliott threatens to flip him over onto his back.

“Which one did you like, then?”

“The one text written by a woman.”

“Always you with girls,” Eliott says and pokes a finger into his belly button, which Lucas just squints at and moves to get the book to the bed.

“I can’t remember the title.”

Eliott clamps his arm over Lucas and tugs him back. “I know the one. Stay here.”

Sometimes it’s alright to be told what to do, as well. “I stay if you stay.”

 

**Tuesday March 19. 08.38**

**_l’École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris_ // find what you love and let it kill you**

Two full-length classical choreographies inhabiting your body, neither intended for equilibrium, is a constant inner struggle. A struggle for clarity and dissociation; for leaving room and allocating energy. Every moment between rehearsals helps their quiet installation within your system. It is learning psychology; repetition and rest. It’s especially valuable, when the final performance of one of them is coming up. The old, established one that has occupied all space for a long time is about to move out and you want the separation to happen on good terms. So the last moments with it matter. There are no sympathies to gain from teachers or any senior colleague, really; this is what life is going to be like. It’ll only get worse.

Everybody has compulsory pilates at a minimum twice a week, scheduled early as hell. Lucas takes the class with quiet mind and full body, letting all thoughts fade against the windows. It’s uncomplicated, repetitive and meditative. He doesn’t have to fight for space inside himself, since recently. He fills out his form now, because he was called to the frontline of it and enlightened when he got there. He knows his own body and he knows the body of a man.

The room is in the basement and because of that cooler than any of the other studios but also properly ventilated, and it benefits the recovery. When it’s over, he puts on a full sweat suit anyway, to not overcool. Before he leaves, off to shower and change for the first time of at least two that day, Lucille comes to him.

“Lucas, wait,” she says from half across the room. “I think this is Eliott’s.” She unfolds and holds up a black shirt with the SAB emblem over its chest. “It must be, right?”

“I guess so,” he says, and hangs it over his shoulder when she hands it to him.

“It was hanging on the barre,” she nods to the studio.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, and then she leaves.

*

It’s tiresome that he finds himself feeling grateful for the acceptance of who he loves and fucks. What Eliott is to him is to be considered by people and if they are in favor or indifferent, he should be thankful. That’s what he gathers. He had thought he’d only have to come out once, more or less explicitly, but it feels more and more like it’s going to be a weekly occurrence. At least, the squirrelly awareness of what people might think will be a steadfast partner. Standing under the shower, he realizes that he didn’t get how wearing it is to look for approval, until somebody who for personal reasons didn’t have to approve, did. Lucille may not have said much, but she still spoke volumes. She could’ve just given Eliott his shirt herself.

While this makes him mildly exasperated, seeing Eliott enter the studio for technique class is uncompromised joy. Walking past Lucas, he gives a quick caress of his cheek and says  _ Hello there _ . Unfocus pocus, and practice has already begun. He gets through the exercise haphazardly, constantly 0.53 seconds behind everyone else but snaps back for the next combination. “Those whose calves are burning already need to do more  _ relevés _ ,” Christophe points out.

Somehow, Lucas is two, now; always naturally aware of Eliott. Where he moves and how. He has given Eliott a little bit of himself and gotten some of him in return, discretely and securely lodged in his consciousness. He studies Eliott carefully while he’s dancing. It’s not intended for scrutiny or criticism; he’s making wordless, visuo-spatial notes about orientation, shape, speed and direction. He does the same with everyone. Maybe not in such delicate detail. He has to look away at one occasion, when Eliott catches his dedicated stare and smirks in the mirror.

On the diagonal Lucas loses balance by just a millimeter of energy applied in the wrong moment and misses the ending of the combination. It happens again the next time, and the time after that. Frustration usually presents itself the second he scrambles to finish and walks off to the side. Surprisingly, he’s not that pissed, he notices when it’s about to be his turn again.  _ Kudos _ . It feels odd and could be good or bad; frustration has often been his source of progress in the past. Get mad as a hornet, face, embrace, defy, conquer. Fourth time turns out to be the charm, today.

“No floppy feet, please! Work through the  _ tendus. _ ” Christophe says once they’ve finished the center. “Didn’t we just spend forty-five minutes doing exactly that by the barre? Don’t be careless once you’re on the floor. Continue with Good foot, Naughty foot. It’s tedious work, but I need to see you really massaging the floor. Push through the heel, arch, demi-point and point. When you’re done; open stretch. Then we’ll split the group. Principals and soloists in the production studio, Auguste will be waiting.  _ Corps _ girls stay here; boys go to studio Nijinsky.”

In need of refueling between class and rehearsal, Lucas runs down to the cafeteria. He’s back in time to slow Eliott down outside the studio and reroute him a few steps to the side.

“ _ Salut. _ ” 

“Do you want one?” Lucas asks and opens the paper bag with fruits.

“Shh. They can’t know you’re dealing,” Eliott says when Auguste and Hector pass by and disappear into the studio.

“Shut up,” Lucas groans with cheeks full of banana and shakes the bag at him. “You want one or not?”

“ _ Merci _ ,” Eliott says. “How was pilates?”

“Good.”

Eliott comes closer. “Good.”

“New instructor.”

“Okay.”

Shielded by the door, Lucas moves into his absolute proximity. “Oh, by the way,” he remembers, “I have something else for you, too.”

“Is it a kiss?” Eliott asks and strokes Lucas hair behind his ear.

Lucas is very close to saying  _ It’s a shirt _ , but cancels that and leans his face up to him. “ _ Oui _ .”

Eliott puts open, calm lips to his. “I missed you in bed,” he says.

“Yeah? You could’ve joined me.”

“I can’t with those early classes. Who invented them,” Eliott says and puts his arms around him, pulling him in under his chin. 

“Someone who doesn’t know what it’s like to try to get out of bed while you’re in it,” Lucas says. “You’re nothing if not persistent.”

Eliott looks at him and reinforces his embrace. “Compelling,” he corrects. “You like that about me.”

_ Captivating _ , Lucas thinks fleetingly, and surges up to his mouth again. Auguste starts talking, Lucas only makes out  _ Okay everyone _ and that should include them. “Here. It was in the studio downstairs.”

“I was wondering where I’d left that,” Eliott says. He brushes Lucas’ lips once more before moving into the studio. “Thank you.”

Auguste claps his hands. “Everyone, everyone. Break is over. Let’s get started,” he says and walks in a small circle, waiting for his audience to take heed. “It’s time for learning assessment. We’re already one third into the semester. I know! Madness. Time flies with me,” he adds. “This part consists of my evaluation of you, as well as your own. It’s actually pretty informal.  We’re going to go through solos,  _ pas de deux _ and some parts that have been subject to change. We’ll discuss each part in turn, as we go along.”

Formalities are central, here, so much that even when people really try to go about things casually, it doesn’t work and nobody knows why. He’ll believe in that informality when he sees it.

“You’ve asked yourselves the fundamental questions. Who is my character; what’s his soul; what does she believe in? I want to know where you’ve landed. Technique will be evaluated by your regular teachers, I’m only contributing with my opinion there.” Auguste looks up from his folder and scans his students. “Okay?” he asks and laughs a little when none of them reply. “Curb your enthusiasm, please.” Getting up, he waves to the technical staff and asks if they are ready, then tells a belated sound engineer  _ welcome _ when he stumbles in with a scruffy appearance and a small take-away coffee cup in his hand.

“I like how the dance of the Montagues and Capulets has progressed. You all look very fierce. You’re less inside your own heads - I see less silent echoing of choreography, more blood thirst. You’ve come out of your shell – that’s the whole point; progression, not perfection.  So I think we’ll leave that for now.” Auguste skims through his papers. “Mercutio’s solo. Lucas.” At least, he’ll get it over with early. “Is there anything you’d like to bring up before?”

“No. I’m ready.” Lucas takes off his sweater and walks out on the floor.

“Go easy. You can finish chewing first.”

Lucas mutters an apology and prepares.  Mercutio has been with him during all this time, so vividly present that he has become hard-wired and subliminal. He could be Lucas’ clone, or vice versa. Despite taking it easy he feels like he must have forgotten his intervertebral discs at home, when he’s finished.

Auguste says, “Nice.” Swooning from the praise, Lucas stretches his back while waiting for the others to come back to the center. He has to remember to practice hand-standing more.

“I like Mercutio more than I thought I would.” What he says sends him in a dizzying retrospective loop back to before rehearsals began. How very little he had known about anything. “But I do now. I understand him,” he continues. “He’s always portrayed in the same way. Funny, crazy, whatever.”

“You don’t agree with that portrayal, then?”

“I do, but… I just don’t think that’s all there is to him.” Lucas says, improvising but honest. “It’s like- he has found a way to be, but he has a side to him that most people can’t see, not really. He’s not at peace. He hides behind humor.” His analysis may be welcomed; requested, even, but Lucas still feels like he’s undressing something private and doesn’t know exactly where to look in the room. “When there’s too much noise inside his head, he tries to cancel that by being loud and obnoxious.”

“Are there any circumstances where you think he is at peace?”

“With his friends. Temporarily. That’s why he has so many.”

Auguste rolls a pencil between his fingers and nods a little. “I like your take on this. How would you describe the relationship to his best friend? What is it, to you?”

He’d pass on that question, had it been an option, because  _ violently defining _ are the words that come to mind. Momentarily captivated by a pair of sensitive eyes across the floor, he says “It’s his soul mate,” in spite of not knowing if he really should be trusted with separating fact from fiction any more.

“Sometimes you need to channel a character through yourself before you can see clearly,” Auguste sums up. “It’s interesting that you say that – ultimately, Romeo causes Mercutio’s death. Any thoughts?”

“Well-“ he starts but has nothing. “I don’t know.”

“Well, as they say,” Auguste says and closes his folder after a final note, indicating the end of that after all somewhat informal exchange, “Find what you love and let it kill you.”

Lucas gets up and leaves the floor for whoever’s next.  _ They say that? _

**Tuesday March 19. 10.18**

**_l’École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris_ // tiny dancer**

Lucas adores the synchronicity of Eliott and himself in the mirror. The thought of how efferent impulses fire at the same moment in both of them elicits ripples in Lucas’ chest. His heart jumps as he does, when the placement is perfect; a leg that angles out in a high  _ arabesque _ and the barely visible but nevertheless important elongation before the next leap. When it happens in perfect unison, it’s so fucking satisfying. He moves next to him, through Mercutio’s coquettish invitation to the masquerade.

“Too happy!” Auguste yells once.

People talk about chemistry as if it exists in its own right; an independent entity floating around, striking by chance. The more he stares provokingly at Eliott, the more it takes a life of its own. This feeling could never be sparked off by coincidence. It’s not in the script, but it must be written.

Wasn’t it just this morning that he was in his bed? And it’s still not even noon.

*

When they’re done, Lucas joins a few classmates alongside a wall. He sits down and tears his shoes off, groaning from strain and relief. He massages his feet and watches Eliott walk back and forth, hands on hips and lost in thought, until he calls him over. Then he sits down on his knees in front of Lucas, and motions for his water bottle.

“Will I see you later?” asks Lucas, still a little shook that Auguste didn’t love their run of act 1, scene 2, as much as he did. The recurring  _ Nice, _ that he had started his tirade with, seem more a swerve into what he really feels than appreciation.

“We can use our lust for experimentation but it has to be done respectfully,” he had said, looking at Eliott. “Know what you’re doing, and why. I see you playing, which I generally encourage, but as a matter of fact this isn’t your playground. Respect the story; respect what’s greater than you. It’s ultimately about respecting your own work.” Lucas had to look around at that, searching for surprise echoing in the others around him, while he had tried to understand if it was directed to him as well.

“Eliott, I’ll talk to you like an adult. You have a very strong sensual air here. Use it wisely. The audience can’t feel what you feel automatically, they need guidance and contrasts. Don’t go all in immediately; hold back. At first, he doesn’t want to go. Yeah?” Auguste had elaborated. “It takes timing and sensitivity to break through the fourth wall. Subtlety.” Eliott had nodded but otherwise seemed a little puzzled.

Lucas can’t remember him doing anything terribly solicitous to encourage such a remark. The school still hasn’t reached the level of informality between students and faculty that Eliott would tell Auguste that he’s wrong, if that’s what he’s thinking. One has to know when to put a lid on it. Not only that; Auguste might be right, but Lucas can’t tell.

“Hector! Fight with Romeo,” Auguste had decided, following that. “Props, get me the gun, stat.”

 *

“Mmm. Don’t know,” Eliott says now, taking long gulps of water, and pokes at Lucas’ feet with his index-finger. “Might have to stay late and respect the craft.”

“Fuck him.”

Eliott chuckles a little and sits down. When Lucas searches his face for an answer, he leans in and puts his lips to his bare shoulder, saying “your place” into his skin. 

Things start moving and Eliott gets up, pressing a brief kiss to Lucas’ mouth. “Gotta go shoot Hector.”

A couple of meters away, Auguste walks across the floor after a short pause and inadvertent eye in their direction. “Hopla. Well. That explains a lot.”

 *

Even though he has seen it so many times, it’s still harrowing to watch Eliott’s deranged expression as he points the gun to his own head in chaotic, suicidal grief before aiming at Hector.  _ Either you, or I, or both must go with him. _ Whatever Auguste preaches about honoring the art, Lucas thinks that nobody ever gave life to those words better before, without uttering a single one of them.

They wrap up after lunch. “Are you ready for the grand finale?” Auguste asks while packing up. ”It’s sold out, both days.”

“I’m ready to leave Shakespeare behind,” Hector says. “Like, for good. It’s always the same old story. Women are underappreciated, everyone is gay and no one survives.” Eliott eyes him skeptically. “Tell me I’m wrong,” Hector shrugs.

Eliott pulls up his sweat pants and ties what Lucas silently assumes is supposed to be a bow knot of the waistline elastic strings. “I don’t know. But I’m all set, anyway.” He sits down gingerly next to Lucas, groans, and lies down.

“What’s this?” Lucas asks silently and toys with the tangled straps in the front of his pants.

Eliott peaks up and draws his brows together, before shrugging and catching Lucas’ fingers, keeping his hand in his.

“Are you going to miss Romeo? He’s a strong protagonist,” asks Auguste and approaches them, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

Eliott comes up on his elbows. “Maybe. But I think I’m ready to leave him behind,” he says, and looks at Lucas.

“But not Mercutio,” Auguste observes with the shadow of a smirk.

Lucas averts his gaze but looks up again when Eliott strokes the inside of his hand with his thumb. “Not Mercutio.”

“Adorable.” Auguste rounds them and waves. “See you on Friday.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There might be another chapter coming soon depending on how writing goes   
> Like any other ff writer, feedback and comments really inspire and make me write faster ;)   
> If you read this story and like it, tell me what you feel. In the end, anyone who writes smtg like this are going to want to know that they've reached someone.


	23. Grand Allegro 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter 22 recap:**  
>  Last time we saw Lucas, he told Eliott about how he accidentally slept with his flatmate, which led to Eliott needing to make sure of his influence on Lucas. We followed them to ballet class and witnessed their half-hearted attempts at keeping their true feelings from taking over during rehearsal. And they came out to Auguste. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for commenting 😘 It is what keeps me going. Any thoughts or feelings, tell me about them! ♥️  
>  Warnings: smut, sweetness, misbehavior. And the calm before the storm.  
>  Thank you, Rocìo and Ellie! Your brains are worthy of all chef's kisses in the world.  
>  Written with utmost respect for the creators and characters of the original work.

**Thursday March 21. 08.52**

**the apartment // la cerise sur le gâteau**

Lucas’ mind flutters idly over the sound of a ringing phone, stressed voices trickle by, a single chime of a church bell and then a blinking pinball machine. Miserably trying to isolate the noise, he attempts to shut off a sophisticatedly engineered burglar alarm until he wakes up. He turns to the body next to his, feeling like his heart is beating against the bones of his ribcage, and mumbles _Turn it off_. He doesn’t fully gain consciousness until Eliott stirs and croaks “’S not mine.” 

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he identifies piano from outside his room and sits up, feeling hung over although he isn’t. In relief that it wasn’t his alarm, mixed with annoyance over the obnoxious volume from somewhere in the apartment, he pulls on jeans and stomps out. 

“Hey!” he says into the living room. Manon is on a yoga mat, stretching with an elastic rubber strap tied around her foot. “Are you deaf or something? Turn it down.” He makes it halfway across the floor before she crawls over to her phone. “It’s seven AM."

“It’s almost nine,” she points out, adding _Geez, sorry_ , at his countenance. "Woke up on the wrong side of the bed?'"

“ _N’importe quoi_ ,” Lucas grumbles and trudges back to the bedroom, goose-bumps breaking out on his skin. Sleep deprivation renders you tired and cold even when the reasons behind it are good. So good. 

“What time is it?” he asks when he reenters.

Eliott, on his stomach and covered by sheets to his hips, turns his head to Lucas and peers at him. “Feels like it’s so early it should still be yesterday. It’s bright outside, though.” 

Lucas unbuttons his jeans and scans his surroundings. “Don’t know where my phone is,” he mumbles and taps around for it under the covers, only coming up with Eliott’s legs.

“Come back here,” Eliott says and grasps his wrist, guiding him up alongside the bed. “I don’t wanna get up yet.”

Eliott turns and Lucas lets himself be steered down onto him, as he removes the sheets and uncovers his naked form. “Me neither,” he agrees, folding his legs astride his hips. Assuming a position similar to the child’s in yoga, Lucas stretches and then huddles over him. “You’re warm,” he states after a moment, shivering in transition from cold to cozy. 

Wordlessly, Eliott grabs the sheet and pulls it up, covering them both from tip to toe. His eyes, shaped like soft, slanting half moons, are still traced by the night but when he opens them it’s like looking at the sun. Only when he turns serious and asks, _Did you sleep well_ , can Lucas fully see the gray-green irises. 

“Well, but not enough. _Et toi_?” he asks, bringing their lips together. 

“I dreamed of you and pancakes.”

“ _Ah bon_? Savory or sweet?”

“Sweet,” Eliott says and tilts away from his face, mumbling _Wait._  

“ _Gourmand_ ,” Lucas snickers and put his hand to Eliott's chin, but he dodges him and pushes at his chest. 

“Up,” he continues. “Just wanna see a little bit.” As Lucas sits up and moves back, Eliott comes up on his elbows; revealing a full-blooded morning erection, rising up along his stomach. He lies there; raw, warm and inquiring with sprightly eyes. Eliott knows how to embrace what’s by nature given. Lucas grabs his dick and stares at it. 

Eliott tugs once at his fly. “What’s that?” he asks. 

“This?” Lucas says and lifts his hands. “These are jeans.” 

Eliott isn’t concerned about what his pants are called. He doesn’t acknowledge Lucas’ joke but eyes him silently. “No. In there,” he says, nodding to his crotch.  

His dick observes Eliott’s sultry pitch as well and demands to be acknowledged; its base presses uncomfortably against the zipper with the sudden upsurge of blood flow. “My dick,” he says and pulls the metal closure all the way down but does nothing, aside from that. He waits Eliott out, standing on his knees over him, until he rises up and leans back on his arms. Lucas has already figured out that he’s hot for him going commando. Still, he mouths _what_ to Eliott when he doesn’t act or speak, only eyes him quietly. In a matter of seconds, his cock is going to push its way out by itself anyway, demonstratively solving the problem for them. 

Blinking slowly, Eliott comes closer and puts his hand and then mouth on Lucas’ stomach. “Tasty baby,” he says, talking into his skin, and folds his fingers over the hem of his jeans, sliding them around from the back. When they catch in tangle of dark brown hair emerging from the open V, he looks down and parts it. “Are you trying to provoke me?” he says, mildly riled, when reaching down into Lucas pants, finding his cock nude and swollen. He pulls it out carefully and wraps long fingers around it, drawing a weak grunt from Lucas. He feels that, heartily; more responsive to Eliott than ever when newly awakened. Always so responsive. 

Eliott leans on one arm while firmly but smoothly moving his other hand on Lucas, slickly milking him. Lucas has nothing to hold on to but the wall and presses his palm against it, thinking that the vision that Eliott makes below him must be better than his dream; it blows over and beyond savory and sweet. 

Eliott moves in so delicately that Lucas momentarily fears that one of those senseless teasing games is imminent once again. He’s not a fan of those; they’re bad for his psyche. But Eliott aims to please, not to aggravate. He opens his mouth, letting Lucas’ dick meet the flat of his tongue and swirls in his precome with a warm lick. Keeping his lips against the head of his dick, Eliott looks up when he moans. _Ah, shit_ , Lucas hears himself utter and closes his mouth on unintelligible garbling, putting his hand to the side of Eliott’s head. 

Gripping Lucas harder, he ups the rhythm and jerks him off against wet lips. He doesn’t even let him slide into his mouth but that doesn’t stop Lucas from rushing forward into avid lust, erotic drive fueled up and roaring in Eliott's hands.

Sinking down on an elbow, Eliott suddenly slurps off of his dick and shimmies further in between his legs.

“Come on,” he says, pulling at his thigh.

“Where?”

“Here. Put your legs here.” Eliott directs him up, and then a little more up, over one of his arms and into his face. “You know what to do?” he says and kisses the glans. 

Lucas is actually not sure, but intuition says fuck, so he goes with that and angles his dick down into Eliott’s mouth. Wobbling, he smacks both hands to the wall in front of him and thrusts cautiously. Eliott helps and makes him slide in with long, rich strokes. He lets Lucas captain which in turn makes him want to go until he shoots; hard and immediately. It’s insufferable to fuck his mouth in this position but Lucas tries anyway, inconsistently in fits and starts. “This is so hot,” he states quietly, wondering if there will ever come a day where Eliott doesn’t lift the drapes on a new part of the sky and encourages him to fly there. 

When Eliott's response amplifies and he starts to draw his orgasm out of him, incrementally in slow whirls of his tongue, Lucas surrenders quickly and takes Eliott’s head in one hand, pressing his fingers into his hair, and thrusts. Just a little bit more and he’ll highball over the edge.

“Don’t come yet,” Eliott says, hurriedly pulling off his dick.

Lucas leans his head on his upper arm and groans. _Little devil._ “Stop trying so hard to make me, then,” he breathes. 

Eliott ignores him and sits up. He puts his nose and mouth to Lucas' groin, inhales and stays there. “We’re not that late,” he says and peeks up. Lucas is filled with tenderness, looking at him.

“No?”

Eliott finds his glutes, kneading them, keeping his gaze locked on Lucas’ face. “Plus, you got dressed all wrong,” he continues. “Gotta start over from scratch.” Shoving himself back and away, he moves around Lucas who still just stands there on his knees, wondering what’s next because it sure won’t be technique class with Christophe. 

Eliott has no plan more elaborate than getting Lucas as naked as he is, and then on top of him, Lucas understands when he gives a healthy shove to his back, pulls his pants further down and climbs up over him, curving along his body.

“You’re alert, for this hour,” he mutters as Eliott crouches and rests his head in the small of his back. 

“Mmm. It’s called morning glory,” he says from his cradle. He mouths long kisses over the panels of muscle along Lucas’ spine, drawing smooth and diffuse doodles with his finger-tips down his sides. Eliott can be as soft, patient and malleable as a purring cat, but Lucas senses when he’s hungry. Squirming further down, Eliott grabs his butt-cheeks and makes them jiggle and bounce in his hands. “My little marshmallow,” he mutters and presses his lips to the left.

“Rude. But okay,” Lucas scoffs and looks down at Eliott, interrupting his game of squeeze and release. “It’s muscular. Firm,” he adds, clenching his muscles for emphasis. 

“So is a marshmallow,” Eliott says and grazes his teeth over them. “Firm, milky, delicious.” He lingers by the creamy-white slope where Lucas’ butt dips, crowned by two light dents above his tailbone, and his back stretches out in expanding angle. “Good enough to eat,” he says quietly, peeking up at him under his eyebrows, running his nose down the sacral part of his spine.

Lucas shifts and has to thrust quickly into the sheets in response to the surging eroticism. He stays quiet; content to listen to Eliott getting worked up, letting him rove his body. It’s so fucking sweet. He turns back and watches him gather saliva in his mouth before lapping down his tailbone, his tongue slipping wetly over it. 

“Lucas?” Eliott says, warming his back with the placid heat of his palms, letting more spit dribble from the tip of his tongue to Lucas’ skin. When it trickles down along the groove between his buttocks, his head falls back on the pillow. 

“Hm?” 

“ _J’adore ton cul,_ ” he says with a low, ardent voice.  _“J’adore tes fesses._ ” 

What Eliott needs thrums in his body and conducts skin-to-skin, from his chest through Lucas’ shoulder blades, when he moves back up on him. Lucas brings him closer, entwining their right-hand fingers and adjusts his legs to him. “What do you want,” he asks even though he already knows, and searches Eliott’s mouth. 

Eliott slots their lips together, luscious and wet, slowly moving in to cover all of Lucas with himself. Lucas abides. His weight on him is something he needs. “Guess,” Eliott says, smirking through the kiss.

Lucas twists and reaches under the bed when his alarm chimes. “ _Merde_. We gotta be quick,” he says and shoves the phone under his pillow.

“That’s not going to be a problem,” Eliott says and spits in his hand. He returns to Lucas’ neck, spreading spit on himself, rubbing in mindless self-indulgence against his body. 

At times, Lucas isn’t aware of his own capacity or how far he’s come. He has to demonstrate it to himself and hear himself go _oh_. It just feels very fucking sexual, to be spread out in front of Eliott. There’s no shame or depravity; he was meant to be here right now, naked in the shape of an upside-down Y. 

Eliott takes himself in hand and searches, plowing his dick down between his buttocks and stops, just as Lucas moves back and reaches for him in search for more of his weight. The joint movement makes Eliott push through the first ring of tearing friction too fast, he barely has time to align himself before he’s inside of Lucas with a surprised gasp in the nape of his neck.

“ _Aïe, aïe,_ ” Lucas whimpers and bites back a louder noise. 

Eliott stops, torn between searing pleasure and concern. “I’m sorry,” he hisses, trying to hug him. “Want me to pull out?”

“Don’t move. Just stay like that.”

 _Oui_ , Eliott says quietly, holding absolutely still. Attempting to assuage his brutal entry, he wanders with gentle kisses along his shoulder. Lucas needs many breaths, and he waits with him. “Just be with me, and relax,” he says and puts his lips in his hair, smoothing it out over the pillow.

Swallowed by sensation, Lucas only hears Eliott say words, but is brought back little by little when he massages his lower back, gradually digging his fingers deeper into the muscle. When Lucas opens one eye and peeks at him, he surges forward slowly. 

Lucas bites the inside of his own bottom lip to distract from the unyielding pressure. He’s ready, he was born ready but his body adapts slowly, slower than his arousal and he’s at the mercy of it. 

Rotating his head against Lucas’, Eliott lifts up and looks down at their bodies. At liberty to move, he thrusts lightly into him a few times and groans, _Fuck, this view_. Lucas rolls his face half into the pillow desirously, because the vision echoes into him. “It’s okay now,” he breathes.

Eliott stares at him silently. Lucas hasn’t fully decoded what goes through his mind in those moments; it’s as if he’s trying to look inside Lucas, search his soul for reassurance, before coming after him like a pouncing wolf. 

As soon as he does, he plants his mouth by Lucas’ ear and whispers _Yeah?_ He lingers there, while filling him up all the way through smooth ripples. 

Groaning, _Baby_ , Lucas feels himself leaking precome into the sheets from listening to Eliott’s breathing. It’s so revealing; echoing what words can’t properly describe. Lust makes him part his legs wider, and carefully angle his butt up into Eliott. 

Eliott’s hand comes after his thigh and grips it. “Ah, don’t do that,” he grits out. Leaving his leg, he smooths up Lucas’ side, pushing him harder into the mattress. By the sporadic pauses and readjustments, it’s evident that Eliott is holding back, and Lucas only wants him to get out of his own head and deeper into his body. He can’t force the pressure of his palm to his back, though, and rocks deeper into the bed with his thrusts.

When Eliott suddenly stops and leans back, hastily shoving the sheets away from their legs, Lucas catches the opportunity that his distraction offers. He hears him inhale sharply and pause, when he rolls back and up into him. Relishing his reaction, he repeats it, even though Eliott’s depth in him feels like it could give him a pneumothorax. 

“Don’t do that,” Eliott moans and grabs Lucas’ hips, but his hands slip on his skin. “It’s over, if you do.”

Lucas tries, though, but he can’t. “You’re gonna break up with me if I make you come?” he grumbles, defiantly wiggling about, obstructed by Eliott’s grasp on him. “You’re mad.”

“No,” Eliott says and bows down to him when he stills. “But I might punish you.”

Their play spurs the devil in Lucas; he jerks back brusquely, pushing Eliott off of him, and squirms around. Gritting out _I’m so fucking scared_ , he grapples with Eliott who snorts with surprised laughter and tries to catch him by his arms but Lucas is faster and swings one leg over him, ungracefully turning over on his back. When Eliott finally seizes him, he pins Lucas’ wrists to the mattress. He puts his weight on them for a moment, and then let's go. “If I’m mad," he snickers, "it’s your fault."

Laughter bubbles in Lucas’ too and he exhales a giggle in Eliott’s mouth as he bends down, lovingly pressing his lips to his. 

All teasing subsides and seeps away from the bed as Eliott plants his knees firmly and snaps his hips forward. He maintains the pace, but gradually relinquishes control. He kisses Lucas again, foolishly because kissing will only whip them closer to the summit. Putting light moans in his mouth, he sucks on his lips while fucking him, before pulling back just enough to say _Je t’aime_. 

Lucas winds his fingers through Eliott's hair and cradles his head when he shoves it into his neck, gasping _Moi aussi, je t’aime_ , in one quick, breathless word. 

Eliott’s breath whooshes across his collar bones when he turns his face in, each exhale adorned by a whimpery groan. They mix themselves in each other, flesh and fluid, and Lucas wouldn’t mind if it went on for hours, at least that’s what it feels like, but he senses the rapidly approaching finale. He could get addicted to the want that Eliott bathes him in. His eyes flutter open briefly when his scalp is kissed by the wall; awkwardly putting a hand to it as a precaution. The air in his room is wintery glassy and dry. Unforgiving, cold daylight pours in over Eliott’s back and licks his shoulders. But there’s nothing to forgive, only to love in the most consuming of ways.

Eliott tries to reach for Lucas’ dick but he wants to stay in reign over his senses, just for once to not keel over with pleasure, and to watch Eliott come. He capitulates without struggle and drives himself into Lucas, letting go of everything except his shoulder and the edge of the mattress with instinct as the only pilot of his being. 

When he pushes his head into the pillow behind Lucas and his body forward, nearly climbing up over himself, whining _Baby, baby,_ Lucas pulls him to his face by his head and hair. He gets a glimpse of entranced eyes, helplessly held hostage by the throbbing incrementum, before Eliott shuts them, continues half-sobbing _Baby, I’m coming_ and climaxes in groaning waves, starting in his toes and burning all the way into Lucas, over and over until it floods them both.

*

Eliott is the sweetest fuck Lucas ever had, even when he doesn’t get off. That’s the naked gospel truth. There’s nothing like watching his beautifully agonized face and feeling the seismic activity spread through him, Lucas, the bed and, lastly, that ominous crack in the ceiling gets a taste of it as well.

In his memories of previous partners, they always appeared to have a strategic goal in mind; a preferred method and outcome that he needed to understand and apply. Sex was something to undertake and manage, with varying levels of satisfaction. But Eliott just wants to be one with him, and for Lucas to feel what he feels. To get it from him, and to give it back, in such a smooth oscillation that they’re hard to tell apart.  
  
Eliott takes time to bounce back, by degrees descending on top of Lucas’ body from some place higher, inside him. He comes up smiling from Lucas’ neck, just to dozily flop down on his chest. Tilting his face up, he lets out a slurring, noisy sigh.

“Are you okay there?” Lucas snickers, and pecks his forehead.  

Eliott hums and shifts on him. Starting to slip out of his body, he hunches forward, unwilling to leave. “Think I had a stroke… or something.” 

“I believe you,” Lucas comments on his drowsy face. 

“Let’s not go today.”

“To class? 

“Yeah.”

Lucas was going for a decisive protest but his resolve abates at the thought of playing house with Eliott and he only pipes up with a _no?_ instead.

“Yes?” Eliott looks up at him. “It’s such a scam that they’re making us go today. The closing is this weekend; what’re we supposed to accomplish in one day?”

Eliott is kind of right, but his rationale likely won’t stand in the eyes of Christophe and definitely not Auguste. “ _Bah_ , I don’t know,” Lucas responds to his pointed expression. “I’ll think about it.”

Eliott is temporarily satisfied with that assurance. “And how are you?” he asks, before jolting and looking up abruptly with a flustered expression. Caressing Lucas’ stomach tentatively, he shakes his head. “Fuck. My orgasm seems so selfish and crude, now.” 

 “No,” Lucas says and brings him back to his chest. “I was right here. It was great. You can ask Mika later if you want a second opinion.”

“Oh." Eliott bites his lip, snickers and mouths that he's sorry.

"I don't think he's home," Lucas interrupts. "Also, whatever."  

"Okay, but,” Eliott mutters and pulls out of him, evading his embrace. 

“But, what?” Lucas objects, stretching out in front of him in spite of it.

Sliding down between Lucas’ legs, Eliott is back in ever-sly spirits. His general appearance reeks of messy sex, Lucas observes. It only works in his favor, anyway. “But, this,” he says, raptly looking at his dick. “Is still so hard.” He grabs under Lucas’ thigh, tipping his leg to the side. “We can’t have that.” 

Lucas succumbs to Eliott’s wish to satiate him. He’s not that noble. “Yeah. No,” he breathes when Eliott takes him back in blood-warm mouth. His body rewinds pregnant memories from just a little while ago, as soon as he trails his tongue down his shaft. He flats Lucas out with an arm up along his torso and palm to his rib cage, easing down on him in the same rhythm as his circulation. Eliott is the uncrowned king of cock adulation and catapults Lucas’ to cresting pleasure with full lips and slippery tongue so quickly. 

Within less than three full minutes of smoothly sliding between Eliott’s lips and palate, Lucas has to warn him, although they’re approaching a point where that won’t be necessary anymore. Eliott is such an aficionado of his body, soon he might know it better than Lucas does himself, given the deep interest he’s taking. He knows all telltale signs. How his dick grows unbelievably harder, starting from the base up to the glans, how he sounds, how he looks at him and how he can’t lie still but moves fitfully under his mouth. 

Eliott doesn’t give a flying fuck about warnings, though, and takes him all the way, into his mouth and farther. Choking his own voice, Lucas grits out _I love it when you suck me,_ grabs around his neck and comes.

  
  


**Thursday March 21. 09.45**

**the apartment // rising action**

Eliott has the habit sometimes, to start making conversation with Lucas way too soon after sex. At least if he expects a rational response. Eliott’s thoughts run so fast, at times, that Lucas has to focus to hang on.

He crawls up on him and lies smiling at Lucas’ dopiness. “You’re cute,” he says and puts his lips on his, but his mind is already onto the next event. “What’s it gonna be, lover?” 

Lucas’ tries to recall what it is that is going to be something, but is too slow. “We can go,” Eliott continues, deliberating. “And be good, be conventional.”

“Or?” asks Lucas, when there’s no continuation. 

“We exercise our civil right to strike. Stay here,” Eliott says and puts soft fingers to his jaw. “Listen to music. Talk. And fuck each other crazy.” 

Eliott gets up, with his eyebrows raised in question. “Are you in or not?” He leaves the room, seemingly charmed by the idea. As is Lucas. It’ll never take a blow job to convince him to cut class when the roué is Eliott. But it sure as hell didn’t hurt either because his orgasm sucked the last remaining incentive to do anything but cocoon out of him. 

*

Lucas stays in bed for a while longer. Almost falling asleep again, he hears Eliott doing something in the kitchen; he’s searching for something or making something. The refrigerator door opening and closing, rattling of plastic and metal spears through a lethargic, warm haze.  He is naked, in there, doing that, Lucas envisions in a moment of clarity. But cooking naked is obviously okay. He can do anything he wants to.

He mutters _j’arrive_ at the same time as hitting send on a text to the course administrator, when Eliott calls for him to keep an eye on things while he goes to the bathroom. 

He finds a plate with an unevenly shaped pancake on the kitchen table, with a syrup heart in its middle. He looks at it, feeling his lips twitch in an incredulous smirk. He hasn’t done anything to merit this. Eliott said that love never happens the way you expect it to. All of a sudden it’s there, naked with pancakes for breakfast on a Thursday. 

It would be polite to wait but he puts a syrupy finger in his mouth anyway. Eating naked is also fine. While he was dozing, it has started to rain. He leans against the window sill and the glass panes are wet enough for it to have been coming down a couple of minutes. 

Love springs up in mysterious ways, like the sun in November. Paradoxically, so does the storm. An anonymous wind, a cold rift, raindrops against the window. That’s the only warning you get, and then it’s already upon you.

 

**Friday March 22 13.02**

**Palais Garnier // at your most beautiful**

Mid-day, the metro is nearly empty in the direction of Paris. On the move, Lucas doesn’t mind being alone. Movement is company, a partner. Not until he gets off the train to change line at _Concorde_ is the number of fellow travelers large enough for them to enter his awareness. He ups the volume in his headphones, increasing his lonely bubble’s life-span, and continues. 

Palais Garnier rises pompously straight ahead when taking the last steps up from the _Opéra_ station. It’s even more imposing in winter time, when the surrounding world is barren and cold. Lights warm from the inside, though. Standing in front of a historic, guild-central institution like _Opéra_ _Garnier_ is a little bit like meeting your maker. It gives, and it takes. Lucas can’t decide whether it’s more appealing than threatening when he walks along it.

Baby powder has produced a dusty cloud around Eliott. He sits on the stage floor and rubs it onto his feet, laughing wholeheartedly at something. Lucas is too far away to make out what he, Emma, Thibault or anyone else is saying, but it doesn’t matter. Lucas lingers in his viewpoint, and watches. Someone sits down across from Eliott and stretches. They’re preparing, just like before every other performance. There’s beauty in the ordinary. 

Beyond that, it’s special to look at Eliott from afar. Lucas imagines that he’s peeking into a tangent universe in which they, together, could exist or not. It avouches they are not, in fact, one entity but separate individuals. Contrary to what often has been the case, lately, when everything has been entangled; body and soul. In bed with him, Lucas sometimes imagines how they seep into each other in more ways than the obvious and that Eliott is everywhere in him by now; he broke in through his pores and stayed there.

He leans back and continues the voyeuristic reverie. The only way he ever will know Eliott is through the convoluted, amorous filter of himself. Forever biased, Lucas watches him while he screws the cap shut on the bottle of talc and gives it to Emma and wonders what it is to see him through someone else’s eyes; how his hands are, when he’s not holding them; what his voice sounds like in someone else’s ears.  He is buoyant, in his silent game of dissociation, hovering Eliott. 

Someone calls for him from further inside the wing. He takes a few steps backwards and peers over his shoulder, making out Arthur in the shadows of the dormant backstage area. 

“Dark lord. You’ve yo-ed me?”

“I need a hand,” Arthur says and nods to the moveable barre in front of him. “I have a minor injury of the left scapula.” 

“I’m here for you.” 

“That’s why I yo-ed you.” 

He takes the stairs down to the dressing room after helping Arthur carry the barre onto the stage. He changes quickly, company warmup approaches. On his way back up, he finds Auguste in the staff kitchen. He came to fill his water bottle but it’s too big and he has to forcibly bend and squeeze it into the sink. 

“Mercutio Lallemant. How’s the lay of the land?” Auguste asks. 

“ _Ça va,_ ” Lucas says while struggling with the bottle. Giving up, he turns to Auguste and repeats himself. “ _Ça va_. Eleventh hour.”

“That it is.” Auguste is making notes on a big, squared paper attached to a hard-cover binder. “How does that make you feel?”

“You do psychotherapy, also?” Lucas quips, with a pinch of agitation. But it should be fine that he makes a joke, by now. 

Auguste snickers and throws his hands up in resignation. “Well. You have to have at least an elementary understanding of adolescent psychology to do what I do. It helps, in any case. Keeps me sane.”

Lucas stalls for time while trying to decide if Auguste’s question was sincerely meant. “It feels strange,” he says when he keeps looking at him. “To wrap up. I don’t know why but, I thought it would last forever.”

Auguste hums and nods. 

“Days went by really fast,” Lucas adds and shrugs, thinking that it’ll be the end of the conversation. 

“The passing of time is a subjective experience. It changes with how we are, where we are. What we're doing.” 

And with whom, Lucas thinks. “It kinda-“ he says with a vague wave of his hand. 

“Swooshed by.”

“That,” Lucas says. “It’s weird. It’s like, I don’t know what to do now.” 

“Of course, you know. It’s in the syllabus. You just don’t want to do anything else.” 

Shrugging, Lucas screws and unscrews the cap on his bottle. “Maybe.”

“It may feel weird, but in the end it’s a good thing. It means you’ve invested; given it some soul. You jumped into it, without knowing where you’d land. A new experience.” Auguste takes his sketch pad and gets up. “I’m limited to advise you professionally, but… it’s a good thing,” he says and then falls silent.

“Maybe,” Lucas says, and then smiles. 

“And as far as post-production depression goes, it’ll happen again and you’ll get used to it. And it ain’t over ‘til the fat lady sings. We’ve still got a total of six hours of teen angst with extra everything ahead of us.”

“Channeling that,” Lucas says and walks out after Auguste. 

“Maybe you’ll be sick and tired by then. “

“Yeah, I doubt it.”

“Lucas,” he says before taking the stairs in a different direction than him. “You’ve done good.”

 

**Friday March 22 17.50**

**Palais Garnier // stage fright**

It’s the second-to-last show; it's not a big deal. Lucas has never been prone to stage fright, and thus never acquired a strategy to deal with it. His preparations, outside of warming-up, can come off as vague and unpremeditated but that isn’t true. Oatmeal, fifty centiliter of caffeine water and, depending on mood, trap alternatively eighties indie in his headphones, are the three steps to success that have yet to fail him. It efficiently disengages the part of the brain that whispers _what if you fuck up, and fall on your fucking ass_ and then he goes in headfirst. Tonight, he’s edgier than usual though, he really is. It seems a bit like energy misspent. 

It’s as if it has caught up with him, how ingenious and groundbreaking this staging of Romeo of Juliet is and how it started a chain reaction of the same caliber in his life. At first, he hadn’t paid attention because he was angry. Since then, he has been too infatuated to care about anything outside of Eliott and himself. It happened so unexpectedly. Mid-winter time when the outskirts of Paris sometimes appear as if under a sleeping spell, quiet and monochrome, everything unfolded and bloomed inside of him. Observing it all with inner bird’s-eye view, during a few moments of solitude backstage, is mind-boggling. The new seeds have overgrown, mixing the personal and professional gardens wildly. Not in any moment is there a way of knowing what the onstage would have been without the offstage, and vice versa. He’s lost track of it and thinks that maybe that’s why he’s nervous.

Passing by Eliott on his way to the other side of the stage, Lucas stops and makes a detour. 

“ _À toute,_ ” he says and puts a kiss in his hair. 

Eliott flings an arm up and grasps his t-shirt when he steps away, pulling him back in over his head. 

“ _À tout de suit_ e.” 

Lucas palms his jaw and caresses it. “ _Oui_. _Tout va-_ “ he starts when the backstage speakers crackle. 

_Places, please; five minutes ‘til curtains-up. Orchestra to the pit, please, tune in three. Ladies and gentlemen, this is your five minute call._

“ _Tout va bien_?” he finishes and Eliott nods. Lucas gives him an ample upside-down kiss before removing himself, hearing Eliott say _courage_ as he leaves. 

He finds his place by the third entry and stretches. The disharmony of the orchestra tuning instruments stirs a Pavlovian response in Lucas - that noise only ever meant one thing, to him. Slapping his legs, he instils the idea deeper into his body; _you’re going to work_.

Eliott stands alone on the opposite side of the scene, between the exterior wall and a jam-packed costume rack, stretching his neck while the murmur from the other side of the curtains dies down. He’ll enter right before the draperies lift and reveal the interior of Romeo’s home. All that will be there is a canapé, a table, and Romeo. During the introductory music the audience is left in the literal dark, facing a wall of heavy velvet, subjected to instrumental heart-wrench. There’s no escape. The lead motif is somber and desperate. It carries a pungent foreboding, with an oboe flapping hopeful tunes here and there, like brightly colored birds flying over a stormy ocean. Sensitive to Lucas’ eyes from across the stage, Eliott breaks concentration for a moment and winks.

Lucas will wait for twenty-two and a half times and for _corps_ dancers to pass, hurrying by Romeo’s gloomy apartment, before joining him. Auguste lets them dance side by side and sometimes interweaved as they play out their relationship. Romeo and Juliet is the first time Lucas dances a relationship-focused _pas de deux_ with another male dancer. His previous experiences were nothing like this, in a few ways. Firstly, duets with members of the same sex had always felt a bit aggressive in nature. He kind of understands the mechanisms behind it. The qualities of men’s movements in ballet are graceful, but explosive, easily driving a combative atmosphere. And it doesn't help that the repertoire consists to ninety percent of ballets created more a century ago, when there apparently only were heterosexual heroes around. Auguste has steered clear of that for something deeper and wilder. He hasn’t reduced Mercutio to an archetype, neither masculine nor feminine; he’s a person, a lunatic, a lover.  Every once in a while, someone with their mind set on transforming traditions comes along.

Secondly, Lucas has never been this mad about a co-dancer. 

Tonight, Mercutio wants to be the highest in the room with his one and only. He will bend over backwards to inspire him, most literally. 

The audience might get that it’s a force of nature to dance with Eliott just by watching, but they’ll never know that its influence is reaching a level where it’s difficult to govern by sheer will. They don’t know that the hand on Romeo’s neck, trying to lift him with the decisive tenderness of a cat mother lifting her kittens, is a hand that has felt its way everywhere. They can’t see what Lucas’ body knows even though it’s vigorously alive, deeply in him. 

Nobody can tell that there’s a silent strife in each little movement, that they have been infected by reality and want to be consummated in a quite different style than the choreography allows. 

Nobody has to know that when Romeo, after industrious persuasion, caves and stands up behind Mercutio, he’s not supposed to come as close as he does. Lucas doesn’t give away that he can tell by the warmth transmitting to his back or that he can hear Eliott’s, by adrenaline, slightly labored breath. Eliott is unscrupulous, he doesn’t help, instead he adds fuel to the fire by embedding seemingly insignificant details in the routine with his fingertips. But he’s an amazing, singular dancer. 

Nobody has to know. It’ll all be over their heads unless they inspect Romeo and Mercutio closer than they should, or have acquired the experience of hidden or illicit love affairs and know how the camouflage gradually wears thin.

They don’t know that when Romeo’s unwillingness flares back up, his gaze should go down and not follow Mercutio like a moth to a flame. Lucas doesn’t betray them. He doesn’t stand up and stop the music when Eliott molds into body armor over him, telling the audience that if they ask him about Romeo and Juliet in ten years from now, this is all that he’ll remember. Not even when Eliott’s face changes, from shock to devilry, and he mouths what looks suspiciously like _Are you ticklish_ , does he break character. But to be fair, there’s not a whole lot expected of him right then. Only to lie still, bleeding out for the one he loves, and try not to laugh. 

 

**Friday March 22 20.52**

**Palais Garnier // death defying acts**

Company bow happens in normal fashion and Lucas begins to unwind. _Can’t wait to go home, shower, fuck and eat._ In that order. Check and mate, stage fright can go home as well. Overcoming that sudden, intolerable fear is a relief.

“You were nervous?” Eliott asks and puts an arm over Lucas’ shoulders when he tells him, as soon as the curtains close. 

“Nervous, I don’t know. Was fucking scared, man.” 

“Of what?” They approach the curtain, together with other soloists and principals. 

“Don’t know. Messing something up. Had to focus so hard to be present.”

“You could’ve fooled me.” Eliott says and pulls Lucas closer. “You were there.”

Lucas shrugs. 

“I felt you, Lionheart.”

“That’s me,” he says weakly. 

Lucas moves forward, getting ready to meet the audience solo, but Eliott grasps him around the wrist and tugs him back. “Hey!” he hisses.  “I have an idea.” He shoves his bouquet under his right arm and takes Lucas by the hand.

“What?”

Eliott pulls him in the direction of the stage front and spins around. “Can’t believe I didn’t think of this until now.” His enthusiasm is through the roof and Lucas isn’t even on board yet. He makes out a myriad of blurred faces through a narrow gap in the curtain in front of them and the noise from the audience amplifies, when Eliott cuts in before Lucille and turns back to him. “Let’s go out together. You and me.” 

It’s such an alluring, terrible idea. So much for unwinding. Lucas breaks into laughter.  “Hey, hey,” he says and brakes, pulling Eliott back, apologizing to Lucille when accidentally elbowing her in the process. “They’re gonna kill us, if we do that.” 

Eliott resists and they nearly enter a tug of war. “So?” He comes close and cups Lucas’ face. “Death is a debt to nature due.”

Lucas was just about to give in to his capricious ways but stops. “Why would you say that?” 

Eliott decelerates and hesitates for a moment, but shakes it off quickly. “Come _on,_ ” he pleads with glittering eyes. “I want to.” He kisses Lucas, leaving several soft pecks on his mouth. “I’ll come back and get you, I just wanna do this first,” he says then, turning halfway to Lucille. The corps exits the stage just behind her and Lucas can’t hear her response but sees her chuckle. 

“I’ll come back.”

“I don’t mind; go. _Allez-y_.” 

There’s some confusion about the line-up, and a stage assistant shows up to herd them into order. Lucas hears Lucille say _Allez_ once more and then _All eyes on me!_ when Eliott asks if she’s sure. Then suddenly, the curtains part and light blinds Lucas. Eliott’s face is whitened out in front of him but he still makes out the contours of his cheek bones, jaw and a face-splitting smile. So much for unwinding. It looks like Eliott is laughing before turning to the audience, but Lucas can’t hear a thing except the applause and the sound of his own rapidly rising pulse. Afterwards, he understands that it was just a matter of time before something like this happened. Stepping out into the center, he doesn’t have the mind to bow until Eliott does. This must confuse people, he thinks. But they don’t let on, instead they stand up. Eliott turns to him and takes one and a half step back, before sinking to one knee. He lowers his head for a second before looking up at him, smiling with a nervous twitch to his lip. Lucas suddenly doesn’t care about the surroundings or the audience; about that he’s nervous and whether it shows; about whether nature will come to collect its debt because of this last-minute mischief and have Auguste execute them. He doesn’t care about any of this. All that goes through his mind is _My little baby_. Impulsively, he reaches out and touches the side of Eliott’s face, and bends down. He absolutely, honest-to-god, meant to kiss his cheek, he really did, or maybe to pay respect in return and bow to him, but that’s not how it turns out. There might be some regulation in place against French kissing in front of a full house at Opéra Garnier, ironic as it would seem, but who’s going to stop them. Eliott remains on his knee and hangs on to Lucas, tilting searchingly up to his mouth. He’s  glowing; contagiously giggling on Lucas’ lips. Someone cheers and Lucas snaps back. He pulls off of Eliott’s mouth and interlacing their fingers, he hauls him to his feet again. He waves one final time, and with that, the path in behind the curtain opens again and it’s over. 

*

“I knew that would happen,” Eliott says, laughing, when they stumble out backstage and into the corridors, high on each other and on rebellion. 

“What?”

He catches Lucas from behind, bringing his arms around his shoulders and they proceed down the corridor in a wonky tandem-walk. “That you’d latch onto me,” Eliott says and thumbs at his bottom-lip.

Lucas looks back at him, raising his eyebrows. “Dick.” 

“I just thought to myself,” Eliott goes on, hanging over his shoulder, “Fuck. He wants me so bad.”

“Pfff. Nothing wrong with your self-confidence. You planned that, or what?

“Not exactly,” Eliott shrugs. “Did you mind?” 

“No.” Lucas turns around and faces him, treading backwards carefully. 

Eliott maneuvers them to the right and they continue toward the staircase. “I’m proud of you, though.” 

“And me of you.” He kisses Eliott, bringing his arms around him. “Trophy boyfriend.”

Eliott scoffs. “I meant, on stage!”

“So did I. Trophy boyfriend, on stage.” 

“Mmm. Thanks.” Eliott lets go of Lucas when they approach the stairs leading down to the dressing rooms and loges. “I’ll meet you here,” he says and disappears toward his own room. 

Lucas left his stuff in a mess, clothes turned inside-out and make-up scattered over the table. While he’s still organizing himself, Eliott returns, dressed and ready. He agreed that they stay at his place tonight at Lucas’ suggestion, claiming that he senses Mika mobilizing to ask him to pay rent. 

“By the way,” Lucas says, pulling on his shirt. “You’re no better than me. You’re pushing it, especially in the first act.”

Eliott laughs and leans against the back of the little worn out sofa.“You’re gonna clap back now?” 

“You’re one step from breaking character, I swear I can see it in your face.”

Eliott smirks and shrugs. “Also, _are you ticklish_? Really?” Lucas adds. 

“It’s called method dancing,” Eliott says. 

“Method dancing. Is that your own concept?”

Eliott nods and grasps Lucas’ hand. It’s nearly impossible to taunt him. He always disarms Lucas immediately, sticking a flower into his gun. “It lets you become one with the dance. Makes it so good you never wanna stop,” he says, and pulls him closer. “Only, go deeper.”

All of Lucas tunes in to that message. “I’m done. Let’s get out of here?”

Eliott looks straight ahead, at Lucas, but with eyes lost in the distance. “I wasn’t going to do anything. But I confess that I got lost a bit in. It’s just that, when I dance with you, … valve after valve opens. For us. We just have to keep moving. Do you understand?”

Lucas puts the tip of his nose to Eliott’s and nods. He understands. Then he pulls him to his feet. “Let’s go.”  

*

When they exit, Auguste is right outside. Irrationally, he tries to finesse him and retreat back into the dressing room but it’s too late and he collides with Eliott, as he closes the door behind them.

“Why, hello,” Auguste says and slows down. There’s a moment where nobody says anything. Lucas looks at Eliott, hoping that Auguste doesn’t expect either of them to explain or be articulate in any other way. He wants to blame Eliott for a second even though he knows that it’d be unfair. Creating a propellant requires more than one ingredient. “The dependable duo strikes again,” he continues. “What’s it gonna be next time?”

Again, there’s silence, until Eliott speaks. “It was my fault,” he says calmly. 

Lucas gives him a sidelong glance, when a woman interrupts them by calling for Auguste from further down the corridor. He never thought one could be so relieved to hear someone holler about insurance papers. Auguste sighs. “My nerves are lucky that tomorrow is the last show,” he says, and leaves them.

Slowly, they resume walking again. Eliott looks over his shoulder as Auguste disappears. “That was a freebie.”

“Elevator,” Lucas says when Eliott walks past it. “My legs are shaking.” He pushes the button and they wait while the elevator snails its way down. “You didn’t have to take the blame, though,” he says and nods in the direction of Auguste. 

Eliott smirks. “I think I’ve already been pegged the black sheep, anyway,” he says. 

Lucas considers that while they enter the elevator. “The ugly duckling and the black sheep, then?” he offers as they ride upwards past the floors. 

Eliott laughs. “The dependable duo.”

*

"You’ve got a package, Eliott,” the stage manager says when they walk by the administrative unit. “It’s through there. Didn’t bother to bring it to the stage, it’s too big."

Eliott’s reluctant approval of his apartment for the night seems like an oddly suitable coincidence, as he is carrying a flat, rectangular package nearly the size of himself, wrapped in newspaper and a black satin ribbon, when he returns.

Lucas stands in awe, gawking at him. "Who’s that from?"

Eliott shrugs.

"Family?"

“I’ll open it later," he says from behind the wall in his hands.

 

**Friday March 22. 23.21**

**_La résidence - l’École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris (Eliott’s apartment)_ // lullaby**

“Bon appetit.”

Lucas folds out the edges of the pizza carton. Faced with the abandoned-bachelor’s-pad ambiance of Eliott’s apartment, they found themselves forced to start by sorting out the place somewhat upon arriving home, before showering, fucking and eating. Dinner was delivered to the door by a sullen, middle-aged man from a nearby pizza parlor and is subsequently consumed in silence by Eliott and Lucas within 15 minutes of its arrival, in spite of Eliott not being able to finish his. 

“Here,” Eliott says and pushes his plate across the table.

“You barely ate anything.”

“Can’t have more,” he mumbles over the last bite and shakes his head.

Sighing, Lucas folds the remaining piece of vegetarian pizza into a rectangle and bites into it. 

In a demonstrably good call of judgment, they had dealt with the important matters firsthand, including having Eliott panting and pressed up against the bathroom wall, before doing anything that allowed tiredness to seep in. But now it's hitting Lucas hard. And maybe Eliott, too. Normally, it’s difficult to tell when Eliott is tired. Those dark circles are always there, Lucas thinks as he studies him while he stares out the window, absentmindedly twirling a broken ceramic figurine between his fingers. Quietness and tiredness are compatible partners; one is implicit to the other. Maybe he just never saw him really exhausted before. 

Lucas doesn’t mind the silence, either, especially not after three hours of a full orchestra blaring in his ears. “I need to go lay down. I’m dead,” he says when he has finished eating. He gets up, gesturing toward the kitchen table and the remainders of their dinner. “Can fix this tomorrow." Eliott flinches and looks up when feeling Lucas hand touching his face. “You okay?” 

“Oui,” Eliott answers. Maybe Lucas looks concerned, because he adds “Tired.”

Worthy of an honorary title for his dedication and stamina, Lucas goes to brush his teeth before bed. Even though the bathroom seems 5 km away. When he's done, he strips to navy blue briefs that Eliott said he looked "obscenely fucking hot" in, which he though was a nice compliment, and throws himself on the bed. “Oh, this is so good,” he says and rolls in underneath the goose down cover. Eliott has fancy stuff, in stark contrast to the overall uninhabited and, after having tidied, almost ascetic feel of the place. He drifts off but jolts and looks up when Eliott curses. “ _Ça va_?” 

Eliott is standing by the window. He strokes his right hand gingerly. “I burned myself,” he says and scoffs. 

He relights the cigarette and leans against the wall. His eyes wander slowly over the black treetops, across the park below his window. Lucas watches him but can't tell what's absorbing his attention, out there. It's as though he is following an escaping bird, flying further and further toward the horizon. 

'Come to bed,” Lucas says. 

Eliott stubs out the cigarette and closes the window. He undresses by the bed, leaving his clothes where they land. 

“Aren’t you going to open the thing?” Lucas says when he plops down next to him, barely able to form coherent sentences. It’s after midnight. “The gift?" He groans and rubs his belly. "Fuck, I shouldn’t have eaten yours.” 

“Was barely anything left,” Eliott says. He works himself in under the duvet and reclines on one elbow, scrolling his phone mindlessly.

Lucas turns over on his back, slowly sinking until he feels his arm twitch. “Hm?” he struggles to keep his eyes open, but nudges Eliott’s back anyway. “The gift?”

“Tomorrow,” he says. “It’s late.” He connects the phone to its charger and lays down.

It is late, but Eliott doesn’t sleep. Lucas feels him tossing and turning, and then get up. By then he is too sleepy to ask questions. The last thing he records is Eliott sitting on the edge of the bed, the warm touch of his hand in his hair and his voice, saying _Sleep, baby. Dodo._

 

 

  
  
  
  
  
  



	24. Grand Allegro 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter 22 recap:**  
>  In the previous chapter Lucas was pondering the effects Romeo and Juliet has had in his life, especially Romeo. Then, sparks flew on stage. Eliott received a package and seemed a little ill at ease about it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all of your comments. I love reading them, short and long ones equally. 😘 It is what keeps me going, getting your feedback actually makes me write faster tbh. Any thoughts or feelings, tell me about them! ♥️  
>  **Chapter warnings: Drama.**
> 
> **  
>   
> Thank you, Rocìo and Ellie! Your brains are worthy of all chef's kisses in the world.  
>  Written with utmost respect for the creators and characters of the original work.**
> 
> ****

**Saturday March 23. 13.07**

**_La résidence - l’École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris (Eliott’s apartment)_ **

**// Eliott dans la bibliothèque**

A miniature down feather is dancing along the edge of the bed. Lucas' breath sends it in a trembling loop through the dim, quiet air. That's the first thing that he sees. He’s still partially inside a dream, feeling its heavy veil in his system, like the hit of a good spliff. He smiles, half-sleeping, but can’t remember what he dreamt about. Instinctively tracing his hand over the pillow next to his, he notices that he is alone in bed. He rubs his eyes with a thumb and index finger and looks up. Eliott sits in a chair beside the bed, with his elbows to his knees. He’s toying with a key-ring. He seems to have been awake for a while, because he's fully dressed.

Elliott’s face has stirred Lucas ever since the start. He has never seen a face like it before. Its sensitivity makes his heart ache, even when Eliott is happy. And it's so fragile to worry and emotional affliction, or one night of insomnia. It makes the angles protrude and the shadows deepen. 

As the last remnants of sleep begin to clear from his mind, Lucas reaches out and touches his knee. "What are you doing?" he asks, and clears his throat at the sound of his own voice, somewhere between prepubescent and cigar hoarse.

Eliott looks up when he speaks. "Good morning," he says.

"What time is it?"  Lucas picks up his phone, but it has run out of battery. Optimally, there would still be hours until daylight but the fact that the sun is peeking through the curtains shoots down that airy hope immediately. Lucas shoves his head into the pillow again. "You didn’t sleep?" 

Eliott touches Lucas' arm, hanging over the edge of the bed. He nods a little noncommittally and sinks back in the chair. "I have to go to school for a bit," he says then. "Pick up new clothes for tonight."

“Can't costume do that?”

Eliott shrugs. “Apparently not.” 

“Okay. Well,” Lucas raises on his elbows and fluffs up a pillow. “What time is it? Can I stay here?” he pleads, and wriggles further down in the bed. “I’m not ready yet.”

Eliott chuckles and gets up. “Yeah, I'm just gonna… it’s one.” 

He bends down and gives Lucas a kiss. “See you later then,” Lucas says as he leaves. “At the Opéra,” he directs to the hallway, but it’s too late for Eliott to hear, and the door slams shut. 

Lucas stays in bed, relieved that Eliott didn't ask him to come with him. He's good right where he is, going in and out of sleep for another hour. He stays nestled in bed until his stomach reminds him that they have slept through both breakfast and lunch. 

There is nothing in Eliott's fridge except harissa, Japanese soy sauce and a lonely green pear, which he takes. Otherwise the contents are a bit on the sparse side even for a more skiłlful chef than Lucas, so he decides to pick something up on the way to the Opera. Squinting out the window, he stretches his upper-body and lingers indecisively in the kitchen, unsure of how to start the day. 

He finds a cigarette that Eliott must have rolled and forgotten on the kitchen table. It’s a bad idea but he lights it anyway and sits down. He wonders if Eliott slept any. He has complained about insomnia at a few occasions, but it has never seemed to happen when they share a bed. Eliott usually sleeps peacefully, almost completely still and silent next to Lucas. Two nights ago he woke up, tapped Lucas arm and said _Hold me,_ but that’s the only time Lucas has noticed him being awake, even briefly. When he has finished smoking, it’s time to get moving and he puts on his clothes. 

Eliott’s apartment hasn’t exactly benefited from being abandoned, Lucas observes while he gets dressed and looks around the living room, although apartments likely never do. Eliott’s feelings toward it have spread and stained the walls; it has succumbed to its destiny of being unloved. 

He turns on his phone and sends a text to Eliott, saying that he can bring a box of vinyls with him when he leaves. Eliott has offered to provide the music for the party later and Lucas snickers at the thought of what the reactions will be to his eclectic mix of incomprehensible jazz, trippy hiphop and rock.

He goes to the bathroom and makes a half-hearted attempt to organize his hair. He has to cut it soon. It’s becoming a hassle to keep it in check, especially while dancing. Eliott has said he prefers it natural, without anything to tame it. The amount of hair products that he has to use for each show of Romeo and Juliet should be equivalent to about half his body weight though, and it still flails around by the end of the third act. 

Shoving his feet into his sneakers, he remembers the pear and returns to the kitchen. Biting into it, he discovers that it has gone bad. It’s brown and soggy underneath the deceivingly smooth and pale green surface. It tastes like perfume and soil. He spits it out in his hand and throws it away.

Something clicks in his mind as he rinses his right-hand fingers in the kitchen sink, and he bends down to lift the lid to the metal trash-bin again. A black satin band lies in an entangled heap underneath the spoiled fruit. Threading a finger through one of its loops, he pulls it up. 

He looks at it and is surprised that Eliott didn't say anything about the gift, alternatively hasn't fully opened it yet. He wanders slowly through the apartment, wondering what exactly he should be looking for, until he reenters the hallway from the other direction. The door to the unused bedroom is closed, and he opens it unthinkingly. It's the first time he's ever been in there. The room is still empty, with the exception of the big, crumpled chunks of newspaper on the parquet.

A large painting is leaning, perpendicular to the floor, against the eggshell-white wall to the left of him.

It looks odd, standing there all alone. Lucas steps into the room and stops, standing in front of it. The frame is black and it has a thin passe-partout. The sun breaks through branches of a tree outside the window and he steps closer to rid it of the reflections in the glass front. 

The painting portrays a dancer. A male dancer, standing in a dimly lit studio. A single spotlight is directed towards him. The reason that he knows it's a dancer, is because it's Eliott. 

One can only see his profile because he's looking down and to the left but it’s unmistakably him. He's not wearing anything; his private parts are covered only by the position of his leg. Lucas knows Eliott's body and how shadows fall along it; it's his favorite area of exploration and gratification.

It is tinted in dark colors and orange; it looks like ember reflecting along his limbs. Each vein is incised perfectly. It's breathtaking. 

Lucas can't think of anyone who would give this to him. It's oil or acrylic; he guesses oil because it looks like it was painted by someone who didn’t mind the slow progress but embraced the work with care, layer by layer. He runs his fingers up Eliott’s arm, across his neck, to his face. He wonders what is going through his mind. Eliott is smiling, a secretive little smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s alone with his secret and doesn’t mind it staying that way. He isn’t rude, exactly, but avoidant;  he just doesn’t pay attention to you. Whoever watches him is left to wonder where his mind has taken him and whether he will come back. A beautiful dream that you can’t remember when you wake up, but you know it was there.

Lucas is a sucker for him even in the shape of a 2D replica.

He takes up his phone to text him but gets distracted by the piece of art in front of him.

In the background there's a vague outline of a balcony or terrace, otherwise it’s dark. When he takes a couple of steps back again, he makes out a desk and bookshelves. Eliott isn't in a studio or on a stage like he thought at first; it’s someone’s home.  He stands quietly in front of it, feeling like that’s what it’s asking him to do. 

Eliott’s mother is an art connaisseuse. Still, it's a pretty radical gift. On the other hand, Lucas has never met her. She could be the type of person who thinks it’s perfectly natural to give their son something like this. It wouldn’t be all that surprising if she was, now that he thinks about it. He bends down and searches the bottom corners of the canvas, but can't find a signature nor anything else that would give an indication of who the creator is. It’s as if it sprung from nothing, even though he witnessed Eliott carrying it home. Unasked for and unpredicted, but beautiful, hidden from the outside world. Carefully tilting it out from the wall, he scans it's backside. _Eliott in the library. 2018_. is scribbled with a thick lead pencil or charcoal a little below the center. He doesn't know why that plants a grain of concern in him.

His phone chimes. It's already two thirty and he's running late for preparations. Hesitating, he puts the phone back in his pocket and takes a final look at the portrait of Eliott. There’s no special reason to him closing the door again. It was just the way he found it. 

When his phone plings again, it's a message from Yann. 

_Yann: Man I almost forgot it's Arthur's birthday. You got him smtg?_

Lucas leaves in a haste to make it to the next RER, but only reaches the front door of the building before he recalls that he needs his backpack, the keys to his own home and that box of vinyls.

 

**Saturday March 23. 15.15**

**_Palais Garnier_ ** **// Method Searching**

It’s almost zero degrees outside even though the sun is shining, which is a lot colder than it should be by the end of March. A lot colder than it ever should be. Lucas groans and curses when he enters the dressing room and dumps his belongings on the floor. He had way too much to carry on the way there, loaded with his own dance things, a change of clothes, and that box of records that had turned out to weigh approximately a ton. Eliott is going to owe him, and he won’t be late to tell him. He’s probably around already.

Lucas rubs his hands together. The cold has turned his fingers a bit stiff and they’re tingling now that he’s inside, in the warmth. Looking in the mirror, he observes that his earlobes and hands have assumed the color of raspberry syrup. It's supposed to rain tomorrow but then get warmer after the weekend.

If something should happen to it, he doesn't want it to be on his watch, so he transports Eliott’s music the last bit to his loge after changing. He balances it on one knee, knocks, and waits, resting his gaze on the sign next to the door with Eliott's name on it. Not many can brag about having their name engraved on a bronze plate at the Opera before the age of 20. He has come so far, already.

When there's no response from inside, he considers just leaving it outside the door but that would be irresponsible. Lucas sighs, tries with _Eliott, you there?_ and knocks again, before giving up. He'll definitely owe him.

*

"Did you get my message?" 

Yann sits down on the chair next to Lucas’. He is in the middle of transforming himself to Mercutio.

“Hey. Yeah, man, no; I forgot, didn't get him anything." Lucas clasps his hands behind his back and stretches his torso in an S-shaped curve. "Can't we just like, get him drinks tonight?"

Yann rummages through his bag with a satisfied smirk. "I got him a French-Spanish thesaurus." He hands it to Lucas, neatly wrapped and thick as a brick.

"Nice," Lucas says and weighs it in his hand. "Nobody uses those things anymore, though," he adds, giving it back to Yann.

"Thesauruses?"

“Yeah.”

“Why not?”

Lucas puts the lid back on his multi-color palette and opens a case of transparent powder. "You know about the internet, right?" 

"It's a symbolic gift," Yann remarks and holds up the package again. 

Lucas is skeptical, but shrugs and continues with make-up. “Stop,” he hisses when Yann starts flicking the lights around the mirror next to his. 

"It's better than your thoughtful nothing, anyway,” Yann adds. 

Lucas blows powder off the kabuki brush. "I'm getting him drinks.”

“Looking forward to it, damn, it's been forever since we went out.” 

"Me too."

Lucas shares the loge with five others and has rightfully gained the reputation of being messy with his things. "It's true, you litter," Yann comments when Lucas grumbles about perfectionists. He tidies up decently as they get ready to leave.

“Have you seen seen Eliott, by the way?” he asks while hurriedly putting his clothes on hangers in the closet, smoothing his hands over the shirt he's going to wear later. It's a white cotton Levi's that he forgot to iron.

“No. But I just got here.”

“He doesn't answer,” Lucas mutters. “I got all this stuff for him.”

Yann tips his chair and looks into the closet. “What’s that?”

“It's for tonight.”

“He’s gonna mix?

“No idea,” Lucas says and closes the door. “Unless he like, fell off the face of the earth.” He makes another detour at Yann's suggestion that Eliott might be in his loge by now.

He's not. 

An assortment of random objects typical of Eliott is lined up in front of the mirror, a little speaker in the shape of Mickey Mouse, three lighters, his rings that he must have forgotten there yesterday, a pocket-size mirror and a copy of a book that Lucas hasn’t heard of.

Romeo and his Lionheart are eternalized in the ceiling. He looks up at Eliott's scribbling.

Showing up fashionably late as proof of superiority isn't a thing at the Opera. Lucas continues and walks the staircase-landscape backstage of Palais Garnier. He passes by endless closed storage units, wardrobes, an empty dance studio and narrow corridors crowded with equipment and props. Some areas are so cluttered and dusty that it's hard to believe anyone ever comes here. He's not going to stumble on Eliott there. It's as if looking for him feeds the need to find him. He walks so far down into the basement that he ends up in front of the door saying _Le lac._

_Fuck this_ , he concludes, across from that grain of worry that has started to sprout, feeling a bit confused as to what he's actually doing, scouting the outskirts of the Opéra for Eliott but it's not like him to be this late. He puts his phone away, as he walks back up the stairs from the famous underground lake, and goes for warm-up.

 

**Saturday March 23. 17:49**

**_Palais Garnier_ ** **// dancing with your ghost**

Eliott was probably right about being considered the black sheep. Currently, he’s not exactly climbing in the morality ranks, but as he phrased it a few weeks ago, in a laid-back conversation with Lucas while they liberally helped themselves to the hot-water tank in the shower; _if you know how to make people feel good about themselves, there's surprisingly little they wouldn't overlook._ He comes stumbling into the last twenty minutes of warming, semi-dressed and breathless. Lucas sees how Christophe gives him a curt nod and directs him to a barre in the front row, which Eliott accidentally runs his foot into with a loud noise before rounding it, finding a free slot. _Smooth_. Maybe none of it matters anyway, when you have the most exquisite port de bras in Paris.

*

"Where were you?" Lucas asks, in a corner backstage, between the water station and a mobile staircase that will be rolled out in the second act, when warm-up is over and the last minutes tick before the show starts.

"At school. I lost track of time." Eliott is fully employed by getting himself in order. Shirt off, shirt on, hair back, warmers off.

"You- are you ready?" Lucas asks pointlessly, watching him feel around at the bottom of his bag for something.

"Yeah, yeah. I just lost track of time." 

"I brought a box of records with me. You forgot."

Eliott looks at him with a blank expression.

"Your vinyls." 

"Oh right." He jumps around on one leg while sticking the foot of the other into a shoe. Balancing, he leans forward and pouts his lips. "Thank you." Lucas puts a quick kiss on them.

"So," he says, as Eliott fiddles with the elastic strap over the instep of his foot. "The painting." The lights on stage go down; it’s almost time to start. "It's...wow."

Eliott looks up and eyes him quietly for a moment, before nodding. "Yeah." He shoves his foot into the other shoe. Looking down, he fusses with its sole. 

"Ça va?" Lucas asks when Eliott doesn't say anything else, suddenly feeling like his outer shell got a head start to the opera; the rest of him didn’t show up yet.

Eliott nods. "I'm fine." His eyes dart around the stage behind them.

Lucas steps up close and puts a hand to Eliott’s cheek, manually drawing his attention to himself. "Hey, you're nervous?” The orchestra falls silent; it’s almost time. “Maybe you got it from me. That shit is contagious. Any-"

"Curtain in two minutes, guys. One. Take your places, please.” The stage manager ushers Lucas toward the other side and he obeys after some brief hesitation. 

_Why are you so quiet_ , comes to him when he has jogged halfway across the stage. 

Eliott is right across from him, as usual, about twenty five meters. Lucas suddenly really wishes he would have inquired further, even though there was no time and he already knows that Eliott probably would have said _I'm fine_ again. He just doesn't look completely fine. 

Auguste sweeps by Lucas with his usual equipment of pens, papers, double scarves (“it is the North Pole in here”) and an expression that projects the feeling of stress-related acid reflux. He stops and looks at him with a pointed expression. "Will you behave?" He looks deadly serious but waves Lucas off with a smirk

when he is about to pipe up in defense, and it comes out as a self-conscious chuckle instead.

"Are you alright? You look a bit out of it,” Auguste asks.

"No, I'm good."

He claps his hands twice and moves away. "Go get them, lion."

"It's ‘tiger’." 

"What's tiger?"

"That's what you say; you say ‘go get them, tiger’,” Lucas explains over his shoulder.

"I say lion, so it's ‘go get them, lion’ now,” Auguste says offhandedly and adds, “On second thought, not too much. Be a little discreet. A discreet lion,” he finishes and leaves.

A tamed circus lion would probably be smart, after yesterday. 

Eliott sits down on stage, in the same position that Lucas found him this morning. Maybe Romeo's worries are contagious, too. His boy friend and emotional benefactor is going to be there for him, in just a few moments when the music allows him to. Mercutio is as lost as Romeo, it’s the blind leading the blind, but at least they have each other. He’ll get him on his feet again and when he stands, he shoots up; his length and lines will crackle like sparklers against the dark background of Romeo’s decadent living-room. So clear, simple and strong and Lucas can’t get enough of looking at him. He’s so proud of his heavyhearted lover. 

 

**Saturday March 23. 20.50**

**_Palais Garnier_ ** **// force majeure**

Basile puts the cold bottle against the back of Lucas' neck, and he returns to his immediate physical surroundings with a twitch and a yelp. He just dried the last remainders of sweat from his face and waits for Eliott to come over, doing the same. He always does, liberated and happy. Maybe he would smear some make-up in the process and laugh, because they did it; it's over.

"We're gonna crack it open now!" Basile grabs Lucas' arm and he follows with a last glance across the stage. "It's for Arthur. He doesn't know anything, I just told him to go wait in the dressing room."

"Yeah, I bet he wonders what's up," Yann says.

Basile scowls at him. "I'm a good friend. It's a surprise. You're just insecure about your book."

Lucas joins them, pops the bottle open and cheers, but does everything not to prolong the get-together. He showers, changes and does Basile the disservice of advising him on how to style his hair just to distract himself, at his complaint that the greaser cowlick-do that he sports for the play isn't going to work in his favor later on. He gets busy with rearranging it himself as Lucas buttons his shirt. "You made it worse," he says. "Flat. My curls are the cornerstone of my charm."

Lucas constructs each sentence in a way that invites an addition from one of the others as little as possible. He's not completely on board with himself or what he's doing but he doesn't think he comes off as rude; he just adds a tone of closure because he's waiting, pushing time onward with his mind. He has to go see Eliott.

"Hey, where are you going?" Arthur calls after him when he leaves.

"I'll be back," he lies.

He takes the stairs back up again. In retrospect, those few seconds when he walks alone through the dim light backstage will seem like a strange glitch in time, during which he crosses a bridge between two incongruent realities. There's a before and after that; a painful dichotomy that is pushed onto him.

Before, a dream that was too good to be true, but that he had come to accept as his life. Eliott in his bed and in his heart. And if he still had doubts, Eliott provided the service of lovingly hammering it into him.

He had been proven wrong, that he couldn't feel the way the great romantic novelists wrote about. Eliott pulled the rug from under his feet, and then caught him in his fall. He had never been so happy to be wrong.

In the course of the following six hours he will say and do many things but it's completely beyond his power to change the course of events; it seems predetermined. It's not about him anymore, it changed and nobody told him. But that realization is for later.

He spots him when he walks out from the wing. He's the first one that he sees, actually. There's a whole party going on behind the curtains and the props are still in place. The lights are turned down low and a 2 x 2 m disco ball hangs in the ceiling, spotting the room in purple and pink flecks of light. People move past Lucas, but he has already targeted him. Nikolai. The shoulders of two women standing with their backs to Lucas makes the perfect frame. His insides jolt violently.

It doesn't take long for his brain to connect the dots. He knows his fucking face. But even if he hadn’t known it from before, he would have understood who he was looking at anyway, as he moves past the people in front of him and his view clears. His face, and how Eliott looks at it, is just a confirmation. The way they are sequestered and solitary, in spite of the commotion around them, would have set the alarm ringing. It must look odd to anyone.

Eliott is quietly absorbed by his presence, but he doesn't look surprised. Lucas realizes quickly that he must have known. 

The stage is a panorama of lights and jackets and oozes with excessively applied hairspray, but those things only pass as fragments of information. He starts walking again, further into the crowd. Someone slaps his shoulder congratulatorily and he gets a glass of sparkling wine from a tray. 

The tumblers start to turn in his head, while his heart is running hurdles. That breathtaking portrait of Eliott is colored by the memories of someone else. Eliott  must have known.

Lucas gets sucked into a conversation about the show but suddenly has no idea what he's supposed to be doing with himself. He empties his glass quickly, the carbonic acid stings in his throat, but there's no buzz. Eliott hasn't noticed him. 

He continues to navigate slowly between people. Eliott just stands there, toying with the neck of his Montague shirt. His outer shell doesn't have a head start anymore, he's all there, from the inside and out. He suddenly looks so young, quietly watching Nikolai and then the other people that he talks to. He must have known that he was here. 

Lucas looks around and thinks that maybe he's wrong. Maybe for those happily oblivious, it passes as a normal conversation. A talk among others; a brief meeting amidst the celebration. But Lucas is achingly aware that it’s not. That single grain has sprouted, and its roots are coiling in knots in his stomach.

Whirling mingle takes him closer and closer to them, with growing repulsion and neediness. In any other circumstances, he simply would have walked over and introduced himself. At least that's what he'd like to believe. But it's impossible. It’s not far, but a bottomless chasm to cross. He bumps into David who gives him a kiss on the cheek and squeezes his shoulders, validating him wordlessly. Lucas smiles in response, relieved that he's not expected to speak. He tries to read Eliott and catch his attention but all he gets is radio silence, so he tries harder. He has always been sensitive to Lucas' eyes on him.

When Eliott finally notices him, Lucas is certain of when it happens. There's a slight flinch in his eyes when his gaze locks with Lucas' and it starts jumping between the floor and him like a nervous grasshopper before it lands on Nikolai again. Lucas stands nonplussed for a moment but he's grasping at straws so he pretends it's the invitation he needs. 

When he steps up to them, it's Nikolai that acknowledges his presence first, after a moment of endless silence. "Aren’t you going to introduce us?" he says with a slanting smile. Eliott might not have heard that. Either way, it’s logical; an introduction would be a waste of breath. As clearly as Lucas can identify the past, the past stares back at him with silent recognition. “Another rising star," Nikolai continues. "Impressive." 

His voice is deep and taciturn, meant to make Lucas lean forward; he can imagine how others must have leaned so close to it, but he’d rather die. _Why are you here_. He shakes his hand. “Thank you."

In one glance, Lucas is sure; Nikolai loves Eliott. He is suave with a strong, confident magnetism, but the long, flagrant glances reveal him. Lucas wants to scoop his eyes out with a pointed spoon and prevent him from ever looking at his boyfriend like that again. His aversion is visceral.

"Can I talk to you for a second?' he says to Eliott, who looks so uncomfortable that Lucas almost feels sorry for him for a moment, just to immediately taste the anger rising in his throat; it’s his own fault if he’s suffering.

"Can I have your attention please," David says into a microphone. Lucas turns impatiently toward the sound of his voice. "Heard through the grapevine that we might part ways and continue the night at separate locations." A murmur goes through the crowd because, surprise surprise, he figured it out. He always does. "I thought you could talk to me about anything," he continues and draws sporadic laughter from his audience. "Since you seem eager to leave the nest, I wanted to make sure to thank you before you disappear." 

Lucas turns back to Eliott and finds himself alone, next to Nikolai who seems just as shocked and displeased at the discovery as Lucas is. He looks around but Eliott isn't anywhere. They are left staring at each other, both impossibly trying to gauge and come to terms with the other. It's not doable. Nikolai’s presence is a violation. Lucas leaves abruptly and he does the same in the opposite direction.

Lucas briefly considers seeking Eliott out but decides not to; that concept isn’t aging well since recently.  He takes another glass from a waiter and looks at his own fingers, willing them to be still. He can't stop himself from paying attention to how Nikolai moves, talks and laughs; he stares until he wants to make him unable to do any of those things. He knows people, which shouldn't surprise him. Eliott isn't the only one affected, he can tell. 

Lucas wonders how many of them know. The clichéd story about the respected, influential man choosing a beautiful and oh-so-viril lamb. Maybe all of them. If they ever knew, they have forgiven and forgotten by now. _If you know how to make people feel good about themselves, there's surprisingly little they wouldn't overlook_ , he remembers.

If people could just leave him alone or at least be quiet, so that he could think. His brain is working overdrive, but he can’t complete a single thought. He instinctively wants to flee the scene, but he needs Eliott to come back. His tenderness is so lonesome among all those people.

When Eliott finally returns, he doesn’t return, but is caught by Nikolai's tentacles again. Lucas looks at him. Eliott has always been sensitive to his eyes. Suddenly, his heart is covered in vinyl, impermeably preserving warmth for someone else than Lucas.

  
  
**Saturday March 23. 21.15**

**_Palais Garnier_ ** **// intolerable cruelty**

The ground under his feet is cracking, coming apart into innumerable islands and he doesn’t know on which ones to stand. He’s confused. _Everything will be fine; we just have to get out of there_ , he thinks but the dissonance between that and his gut-feeling is screeching. 

When the crowd starts moving to disperse into the night he meets Auguste, in a significantly lighter state of mind than usual.

"Hold up," he says and wiggles the bottle he's holding. "Shh, soloists' bonus." He empties the remainders of it in his own and Lucas' glass.

Lucas eyes skimmer over the scattered heads around them.  
"Would you relax, I’m not upset about yesterday," Auguste says. "People say it was cute." 

It takes Lucas a moment to get the drift. "Oh. That thing." 

"A personal touch." 

"Yeah." He shrugs. "It was- I don't know. Stupid."

Auguste looks at him silently for a moment. "A little."

Lucas drinks his quite meager soloists' bonus and looks around for a surface to leave his glass on. 

"I wanted to talk to you Lucas. You're graduating soon," Auguste says in his periphery.

Eliott is still somewhere, he just can't see him.

"I think we should stay in touch."

Lucas is surprised but nods. "We could-" Auguste digs in his pocket and produces a metal étui, "exchange services." He flips it open and hands over his card. "You're gonna want a job, right?" he adds when Lucas hesitates. 

"Oh, yeah. Of course."

Auguste squints at him briefly. "Good. You should go eat something," he finishes and raises his glass. 

*

He knocks and enters Eliott's loge without waiting for a response, temporarily relieved that he in there and that he's alone. 

"Hi.” Lucas closes the door carefully behind him.

Eliott looks up at him and then resumes handling his clothes. "Hi." Lucas wrestles with what to say, but doesn’t have the time to utter another word before Eliott clears his throat. "So I’ll text you later, ok?" 

When he finally gets a word with him, everything happens so quickly. Catastrophe was just waiting around the corner, greedily anticipating them.

"Wait.” _Wait_. “Aren’t we going to the same place?"

Eliott fishes up a bottle of shampoo from his bag and puts it on his desk. "There’s another event."

Lucas steps further into the room, watching Eliott rummage with his things. His casualness is counterproductive. He’s not casual, he’s deceitful; thinking that his tone of voice will make Lucas believe that this is all normal. "What event?" 

"There are people from New York here," he mumbles, but saying it almost inaudibly doesn't work either.

Lucas quietens but his temper revs up. "Yeah, I know who the fuck is here," he says after a beat, hearing his own voice come out dry and low. Eliott flinches and stops unpacking. "He asked you to go with him somewhere?" Lucas challenges and steps in, in front of Eliott.

He meets Lucas gaze momentarily. "Not only me. Staff-"

"That doesn’t matter," Lucas interrupts. He laughs incredulously and Eliott doesn't say anything, he just stands there, holding a bottle of shower gel. "You’re not seriously going, are you?"

"Yes, I’m going. Is that a problem?"

"Yes, it’s a problem. That painting is a fucking problem. He gave it to you, I get that now."

Eliott shuns from his eyes and voice. Lucas throws his hands up in disbelief. "You’re just gonna fuck our plans?" He turns sideways from him and rubs his palms into his eyes. Jealousy blares intelligibly; there’s a thousand words racing around in his head, but only one feeling. "Are you mute?"

"I’ll come later," Eliott finally says, still holding on to that bottle as if it were a life-buoy. 

"When?" 

He starts taking off his clothes and his distraction makes Lucas murderous. "I don’t know."

"That’s not good enough."

Eliott moves his head in a way that resembles an indecisive shake. "This is something I have to do,” he says. 

Lucas observes a large bouquet of flowers on the desk behind him. "And if I say, I really need you to come with me." Eliott's silence is starting to hurt him physically. "Choose. Choose!" he yells. 

The worst part isn’t that he's going somewhere else, not even that he's going somewhere else with Nikolai. The worst part is that, when he says it, he has already drifted away. Lucas came too late. The afternoon he spent searching for him was cruelly pointless. There’s nothing left for him to do but to scream louder at someone who’s already too far to hear it.

"What’s that supposed to mean?" Eliott asks. Lucas can't tell if he's miserable or angry.

"You heard me. Him, or me. It shouldn’t even be difficult."

"Don’t ask me to do that," Eliott says, rushed and breathy.

Lucas reaches around him, picks up the bouquet and shoves it in under his face. It's unnecessary to ask or say anything about it. He throws it back on the table. "Where were you, before? You were late."

Eliott’s eyes become glassy. "I was just out," he says weakly.

It's painful to be part of a narrative lacking all credibility. In the end, Eliott doesn't even understand what a useless liar he makes. He seems completely guileless to his own behavior and somehow that's worse. "If you leave. Don’t expect me to wait for you," Lucas says, with a furious finger to Eliott’s chest, and walks out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RER = Réseau Express Régional, suburban commuter train lines in Paris.


	25. Grand Allegro 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS: angst, threats (well, one), very sad feelings**  
> 
> 
> Before you proceed to read the chapter, please read this.  
>    
>  There's a purpose to this part of the story. It's part of a larger scenario which we haven't fully uncovered yet. In their universe, they're only one month into the relationship. It's been fast and intense and got them deeply infatuated, so much that Eliott forgot all about his past in the process. at some point he'd have to deal with what he left behind. I know that most of us have emotional bonds to Eliott and Lucas in Skam France. I write them in the best way I can, and for me that means writing them as compelling and human as possible, flaws and all. I want there to be life in them. It comes off as a bit pretentious maybe, but at least that's what I'm striving for and if I succeed to at least some extent, I'm happy. That said, it's not going to be a story that shies away from complication. IF you need them to be perfect and always make the right desicions (my impression is that most of the readers are ok with them not being perfect, even if it's upsetting to read abt, but still) then this won't be the story for you. They will be far from perfect. If it's too dark, I know plenty of other stories that will be a lighter read. While reading this chapter, it can be nice to remember that 1. it's not the final chapter, 2. lucas is a lionheart, 3. it's ok to get upset with me (i'm flattered if what I write stirs emotion), but it's not super cool to tell me about who Eliott or Lucas are, as if there is a universal truth, because there is no such thing. They have meant a lot to me too, but I don't assume we all see them the same way.  
>    
>  Thanks for your comments on last chapter, it was truly amazing to get so much response. Blew me away! I'm always interested in hearing your thoughts. And I'm sorry that I made you wait. In compensation, there will be two chapters this week! ♥️  
>    
>  Thank you for your your open minds and for helping me with this, Rocìo and Ellie.  
>    
>  Written with utmost respect for the creators and characters of the original work. Love/E  
> 

**Saturday March 23. 22.35**

**Onzième arrondissement //**

_Lucas: Is this really what you want?_

 

**Saturday March 23. 22.35**

**Bar Vaudeville //**

_Eliott Demaury missed your call (3). Try again?_

 

**Sunday March 24. 01:45:52**

**Bar Vaudeville // linger**

Lucas has forgotten the bartender's name. He introduced himself earlier, while they were still setting up. It’s something like Louis, or Corentin, or something else that a lot of people name their kids. He’s old, though. Maybe old enough to have been around last time Louis and Corentin cycled into popularity. Or, he's just really worn-out. So far, he has shown Lucas the mercy of not asking why he's still hanging around. Why he doesn’t want to go home.

He has been slouching in the same place for the last three hours. Forty-five minutes ago, most of his friends left. They were going somewhere else; “Out clubbing,” Manon hollered over the stream of people leaving at the same time as her. But he's not doing that. The voices of the few scattered guests who remained by the tables behind him entered his awareness from time to time. Their laughter was nails against a chalkboard. It made his head hurt. As he willed them to shut up, he wondered how lust for laughter had endured this night. Why didn’t it wither away in such proximity to him? Since a little while it's been quiet. He doesn’t have to look around to know he is the only one left.

He hates his phone. Its snidely dark screen gapes at him. He put it in flight mode twice out of anger, vengefully wanting Eliott to be greeted by silence when he would reach out. The only one he ended up playing was himself, because Eliott had neither called, nor texted and all it served as was an amplifier of the fact. Eliott's silence is a confused dial tone in Lucas' ears, his absence is a hole in his head. He had thought that he would come, after all.

The mind has the hopeless habit of scraping up hope even when nothing in the outer world corroborates it. It’s a house of cards that crumbles each time the door opens and lets in cold air followed by the creeping realization that he probably is wrong. The brain is a flawed construction, and so is the reasoning that it amounts to; so vain and irrational. It points to beautiful, flimsy evidence from the past, to extrapolate strained conclusions about the present from it. _If x, then y, it has always been y._ But this equation is unsolvable.

Lucas had left the Opera in a cab. It drove westbound while he was in the backseat with a mind tearing itself apart in all cardinal points of a compass, trying to grasp what was happening. 

In the same moment that he begged Eliott to come with him, he knew that they were fucking something up. Those words tainted everything else they have said to each other before then. They preyed on all little moments they had shared; intimate, synergic, and magnificent, and by uttering them he gave his permission. In the wink of an eye, something had shifted. Maybe those moments never lasted outside of the second they took place. Maybe also, he had been compliant to how violently quick it happened, but he didn’t know what else to do than to confront him. 

Something about drastically leaving the Opéra inspired the confidence of someone having made a decision and for a while he thought he would keep it together. Traveling zig-zag through the first couple of blocks, still in the ninth district, he milked the momentary relief from anxiety thinking that had spoken his piece, made his contribution to the debate. As if that's what this is about. That was a duel with pride that he was bound to lose. None of this is up to him. What he thought was his final protest had been a pained growl and shoving his fist into the back entry door, but the Opéra rose too high and the door was made of concrete. He curbed the instinct to go back and try to force its outer boundaries with his body weight, and remained in the taxi. It removed him from the orbit he's been following unwaveringly ever since entering it, sucked up by the sun. It smelled of car perfume and mints and took him further and further from the Opéra and Eliott. He didn't have to do anything, it just carried him mechanically in whichever direction it went, in calming contrast to the threatening mental anarchy.

*

He had walked into the bar feeling as if Eliott's sin was his own. He had no idea what to tell people. The truth was too complicated; he had been too reckless with his feelings and cut himself on its sharp edges, desperately trying to hold it all together. Eliott had left him to slowly exsanguinate. Starting to think up stories about his whereabouts, Lucas hated him for having to explain. 

Mika gave him the itinerary for the night, and a long tirade about the pitiful state of the bar, but didn't ask him to help them tidy, which was as strong an indication as he could get that he knew something was wrong. "It was a total mess, when we got here," he said as Lucas came up to him, taking in the interior of the bar. It was still a total mess. If Mika doubted, something in Lucas’ appearance might have confirmed his suspicion about the overall condition of things, because he didn't say a word about him sinking down on a chair and staying there either. Lucas watched Mika and Manon and run around with damp dishcloths and decorations, feeling like he couldn't move his lips.

Everyone had arrived all at once. He was distracted by people for a while; they walked by, fast and slowly and, by the look of things, they didn’t care about that it was a hideous place. Maybe it was just him who was grossed out. But they were very loud. It was stressful and forced him outside eventually, to stand alone by a table. He tried to understand if people were excited or calm, distracted or talkative, wanting them to be one or the other so he could handle them, but they didn’t conform to his sudden need of predictability. They were a million things.  

That's when he ran out of words and sat down. When Manon skipped by he had nowhere to hide and knew  he’d kill her spirits in a second. She gave his midsection a soft pinch. “Lulu, come dance,” she said. She studied him for a long moment while waiting for his answer, but he had run out of words. As she looked around the place, he knew who she was looking for. It had dawned on Lucas that he didn't know where Eliott is. He had assumed at a soirée with select school faculty members and their artist friends, somewhere in Paris where everyone was beautiful and inaccessible. The clock was already eleven by then, and as the evening mercilessly went by, any region within or beyond Earth’s solar system had started to seem as just as conceivable. “Can you say something, you’re starting to freak me out,” she had said then. He shook his head, and she stroke his knuckles tentatively. It stung. “Dance with me. This song was my favorite song when I was little.” 

“This song?” 

“Yeah.” 

Lucas put his head on her shoulder. “It's very… vanilla.” The few seconds he allowed himself to relax against her, just a little bit, threatened to wreck the last of his defense. But her hair smelled like grapefruit and cotton candy and he lingered in it with closed eyes for a bit more. 

"Was that Nikolai Surhane, at the Opera?" she risked, after a while.

"Oui," he replied from her shoulder. He was better off without her reaction. 

"Is that why Eliott isn't here?" 

He watched the water that leaked from the ventilation system, making a little puddle on the ground. “Oui.” They said nothing more about it. She offered to take him home but being an inpatient at Manon's infirmary for the emotionally disadvantaged was the last thing he wanted, he had pathetic enough to go around for everyone as it was. He could just go home by himself if he felt like it; there was nothing wrong with his legs, likely they were more than ordinarily apt for movement compared to many other legs. He felt her sympathies like a wet blanket to his face, and defiantly thought that she was very narrow-minded and quite possibly wrong; Eliott might come. “No, I'm gonna stay,” he said and went back to the chair by the left edge of the bar. After a while, people stopped trying to talk to him. He resumed drinking with his back turned to the party, slowly muffling the persistent _Where the fuck is he_ that he couldn't answer.

He wondered who chose the music. It was heavy and head-ache inducing. Eliott’s change of heart was detrimental not just to Lucas’ sanity, but to the whole event. Eliott never came across as especially dogmatic about music but had he been there, he would have played something else. He had life within him that beyond making Lucas' heart throb, could stir anyone. Everything would be different, had he been there. But his French James Dean had sidestepped him and for some unfathomable reason sped into a different night, a rebel without a hint of a cause. The base and strobes made Lucas' insides vibrate and eyes flutter. Other than that, he didn’t move. _It was everything, it was nothing,_ someone’s telephone played.

*

The bartender's neck is bent like a vulture's.  There is dandruff sprinkled like greasy snow on his shoulders. The digital clock projected on a wall behind the bottles is set 15 minutes too early. He has kept close track of time. He involuntarily notices little things askew that one normally wouldn’t pay attention to, because you're busy with sounder activities. He wishes he didn’t. Places like this, you're only meant to see through blurry, unquestioning eyes.

His plan was to stick around until closing and if Eliott hadn't shown by then, fuck him. He'd go home. He ventured into it with an amenable attitude; he wouldn’t have minded waiting until hell froze over as long as it resulted in Eliott emerging by the door. He'd have woken up and tell Lucas, _chéri, it was nothing_ . _It was all a joke, not what you think, just a short lapsus, mistaken identities, thermic fever, the government made me,_ anything. The later it got, the harder it would be to come up with a viable explanation but his powers of discernment were failing anyway. Lucas would accept any excuse as long as there would be one. Flawed and improvised, it wouldn't matter. As long as Eliott would come back.

 

Now it's a quarter to two and his foolish hope is collapsing. He can't imagine anything worse than going home. He had thought that Eliott would come, after all. He looks away quickly from the jaded face that meets his eyes when he catches sight of himself in the mirror, between two bottles of Beefeater gin. _Where the fuck are you_ gets second wind with new, enhanced sound quality, as he sits and twirls a strand of his hair compulsively until it makes a dreadlock. The bangs almost touch his nose when he pulls at it.

Louis-Corentin pulls at his attention by tapping his knuckles on the stainless-steel surface of the bar, pushing a cup of black coffee towards him. "Just take it," he says when Lucas fumbles in his pocket for money. “You look like you need it.” 

 _So do you_ , Lucas thinks. “Thank you.” 

“We’re closing in five minutes, you need to get out of here. Unless you’re looking for work, the busser called in sick.”

“What? No. I’m leaving.” 

 

**Sunday March 24. 02.29**

**_La résidence -  l’École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris_ ** **//  smoke and mirrors**

When Lucas woke up this morning, he thought there would be no end to the times he'd start his day just like that. Maybe Eliott already would be up, rolling a cigarette or preparing the coffee-maker if he wasn't still snoozing, snugly nested and oblivious next to him. He would be there, with morning eyes, morning breath and unpredictable hairstyle, asking him if he had any dreams. Lucas held all those mornings dear before they even happened. If you had asked him earlier today he would have said that's how he thought it would go, as far as he could see into the future. Anything else would have been a lie. A storm has blown in between then and now and left a different scenario in its wake. What does a storm care about expectations.

The dark windows of Eliott's building gawks emptily at him. Lucas has his phone in his hand but stands motionless, arms hanging, staring up at them. He knows nothing, except that Eliott isn't at home. He looks away and takes a few aimless steps as memories of Eliott's demeanor this morning come to mind. If he had picked up on it, would it have mattered?

Lucas squats on a bench and looks around, identifying it as the same one as he spent a couple of miserable hours on a bit more than a month ago. When did he sign up for heartbroken bench-sitting? Now with the additional perk of right-hand knuckles that feel like they definitely could be fractured. Maybe it all had been clearly stated in the fine-print.  He had been too busy to bother with that. He couldn't have taken precautions, that would have been a pointless little side-hobby next to the all-consuming revelry of falling in love with Eliott anyway.

Again, this was the only place he wanted to go. He didn’t care for other ideas. But he wishes someone would come by, anyone, to confirm that he's right and that he's still here; that everything else is madness but he’s still sane. It feels like no one ever set foot here. 

When it hurts, something needs to break, that’s the purest form of catharsis and the road to liberation. He needs to tear something into pieces and it doesn't matter if he'd have to do it to himself. He searches his back pocket. It's so late and Auguste will fear for Lucas’ sanity but that's an issue of lesser importance. 

Lucas doesn’t recognize himself anymore as he dials his number, but can’t stop it either. He's doomed to succumb to the progression of his own craze while helplessly watching it unfurl. He waits while the signals tick, noticing how cold his ear is with the phone pressed against it.

"Y'ello?" Auguste says over indistinct background noise. "Job-hunting already?" he offers when Lucas has made a rushed apology about the hour.

It makes him chuckle quietly. "Listen, have you seen Eliott tonight? I need to get ahold of him," he says, surprised by the sound of his own voice. 

Auguste falls silent for a moment. "Doesn’t he have his own phone?"

"He lost it," Lucas says, aware of his, at best, rudimentary acting skills.

"And you don't have a tracking device on him?"

"Is he around?"

"He was here. We're at Le Perchoir for a digestif. Ha! Is it too late to call it a digestif?"

"Did he leave, or?"

"Oh, yeah."

"You saw him leave? When?" Lucas hears Auguste stifle a sigh. Worry feeds on his guts in big, hungry bites. 'Is Nikolai Surhane still there?" he says, abandoning all pretense. He's too tired for charades. "Answer me!'

"Lucas," Auguste groans. "What is this, why are we playing twenty questions at this hour?"

So he knows. Lucas quietens and walks back and forth in front of his bench. "I've never asked you for anything," he says, which is just as it should be. He disregards completely from that he likely will cringe forever for bringing Auguste into this. "And I'll never ask you for anything else, ever again, if you just answer me this. Do you know where he went?"

"Who, Eliott?"

"Yes, Eliott." 

"No, I don't know that," Auguste says after a beat.

"Where does Nikolai stay?"

"Hey, this is not what we agreed on." 

"If you know, you've gotta tell me," Lucas says, one word tripping over the other.

"Lucas," Auguste interrupts. "Are you drunk?"

"I’m not drunk." Lucas sits down on the wooden seat again.  He regrets calling Auguste. "He’s the only one I care about." Auguste says nothing to that, and Lucas listens to the music at Le Perchoir for a little while. "I'm sorry for bothering you. Have a good night," he mumbles.

Now that he's run out of options, his brain goes static. He sits completely still after hanging up, exhausted. It takes a good ten minutes, but maybe it’s harder than one would think to deny a person at their wit's end such a simple thing as a final direction, even in fear of the consequences.

 

**Sunday March 24. 02.29**

**_La résidence -  l’École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris //_ **

_Auguste Ortiz: It's around M Pigalle. I think you know the place_ _  
__Auguste Ortiz: Don’t make me regret this_ _._

 

**Sunday March 24. 03.02**

**_Montmartre, Paris_ ** **//  ashes to ashes**

Lucas walks slowly up Rue Germain Poulain. Whatever he runs on is highly volatile and should be handled with care. The street is deserted with the exception of him and a store owner, who scrambles with the keys outside his shop and looks suspiciously at Lucas when he walks by. He says _bonjour_ to appear less primitive than he feels, although _bad night_ would make an on-point summary. 

The school owns a townhouse in Montmartre where it accommodates guest professors, visiting associates and, on occasion, international dickhead philanderers. Lucas has never been there but Auguste was right. He knows the place. At first it looks dark, but as he draws closer he makes out a shy lemony light from a room in the back. There are certain kinds of lights that you can’t blame anyone for wanting to bathe in. He stops and considers going back the way he came from. A shadow moves in there, and then another one, it's way too far to see clearly but his need of remedy decides for him.

No matter how gently he knocks, he’ll still be trespassing. Knocking sets it all in motion. The steps are there quickly and then the blue wooden door opens. 

The faculty of memory is obscure. Nobody knows what it is in a face, that etches it to your retina or what about a situation it is that makes it haunt you forever. But some things you intuitively know you’ll always remember, the second they happen. Eliott’s approaching steps and coming into sight as he opens the door, is one of them. Lucas is hit by a load of buckshot, seeing him. Paradoxically, Eliott looks like a deer facing its last moments as well, wide-eyed and paralyzed, and Lucas feels like he could be the hunter.

They stand quietly in front of each other. Lucas doesn't know what he expected. He proved his point and who’s going to help him, now. 

"I knew I’d find you here. I fucking knew it." 

"Lucas, it's not-" Eliott starts and follows Lucas gaze past the door. "Wait, just wait." As though suddenly realizing that he’s supposed to hide something, Eliott scrambles to close it behind him.

It's infuriating. He has spent all night waiting and searching, even though he swore that he wouldn’t. It's too late for Eliott to hide his dirty secrets. He made it all the way here, he's going to empty his baggage and pull his infidelity out for anyone who's awake to see. "Lucas, wait," he pleads again, more strained this time as Lucas grips after his arm. 

  
"Where is he?" he grunts, pressing halfway past Eliott. He gets the upper hand for a split-second and pushes at the door until Eliott's hand slips off the brass-plated handle. It opens, slamming into the wall of the room behind them with a sharp rattle.  
  
They nearly trip and fall into the house. Nikolai appears in the hallway with a half-smoked cigarette in his hand, wearing only a pair of black pants and surprise and doesn’t have time to say a word.  
  
"I’m gonna kill you," Lucas snarls and lunges at him.

Eliott gets an arm around his stomach and the other in an awkward unsteady grip around his right upper arm, grunting _Stop, stop, stop_. 

They wobble in an unflattering mess by the entrance, struggling for vantage and Nikolai desperately tries to get a word in but he should be quiet, and then try the sweet taste of his fist. Eliott has strong hands too and it hurts Lucas’ arm when he pulls at it. He pushes at his shoulder, his jaw, anything he can reach, growling “Get the fuck _off_ me.” Eliott’s body feels like a fucking statue that he’d have to bring a bulldozer to force. His anger changes direction. He shoves Eliott harder than he intended to and stumbles back out, down from the porch. Eliott shuts the door with an another equally loud bang and comes after, grasping his arm again.  Lucas swats his hand away with a loud smack, when their skin connects. "How could you do this?"  
  


Eliott’s arms fall away and seconds start to pass. He balls his hands into fists in his hair. "I don’t know how to explain."  
  


"No, I bet you don’t." Lucas wants to ask him if he’s okay. But while all this play out, it’s too late. When he slips through his fingers, it has already happened. Them, standing there like strangers on the dimly lit, paved passage between the street and the house, bounces back and forth in his head, refusing to merge with his perception of reality. He takes a few agitated steps away from Eliott, running his fingers roughly through his hair.

"But wait, let me," Eliott says and comes after.

"What?" Lucas spins around and zones in on him. He has been so wrong; a stupid believer, while Eliott is faithless. "You know what? You can take your pedophile and fuck off. Stay away from me."

Eliott makes a final, wordless attempt to keep him from leaving, but Lucas removes him with a well-placed punch to his shoulder. "Stay _the fuck_ away from me."

As he falls down the street, his face is frozen in a stiff grimace and eyes bloodshot. Most of all, he just wants to bring Eliott with him; he doesn’t care what he has done. And with its initial crack inflicted by that impossibility, his heart breaks. 

  
  



	26. Eliott // Dansez, sinon nous sommes perdus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is told from Eliott's point of view. It moves back and forth in the timeline; it starts in the present and travels back in time, with snippets of present time goings-on, and finally ends where it begun (in a townhouse is Montmartre).  
>    
>  I love Eliott.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNINGS: mentions of suicidal ideation and self-harming behavior with ambiguous intent.**  
> 
> 
>   
>  Needless to say, these are sensitive subjects. This chapter is written with respect toward the original characters and their creators. I have inserted a lot of slightly altered personal experiences in this chapter.
> 
>   
> 
> 
> Russian - English translation:  
>  Ty nuzhen mne - I need you  
>  Moy zaichik - My bunny
> 
>   
>  Please see end notes after reading, for a long message from your author.

**Sunday March 24, after midnight.**

**_Montmartre, Paris_ **

**Eliott**

Nikolai stood there, out of the blue. With open arms, open heart and a baggage full of guilt, with Eliott's name on it. _Voilà, magician’s fanfare._ After months of being nothing but a memory. First, a screaming and fussing one but as the days went by, as Eliott immersed himself in the Paris Opera Ballet School and then in other enthralling new interests, the memory of Nikolai had been subdued until it eventually fell silent.

But nothing has been resolved. Only left behind.

That suggestive painting whipped Eliott straight into restlessness; it tormented him from the moment he laid eyes on it. He had intensely tried to think of other explanations. All night. But he knew who the sender was before unwrapping it. Nikolai was in Paris. He had been right there, among the anonymous heads of Parisian opera-goers, watching Eliott all evening. Watching him dance, nakedly fall to his knees and kiss Lucas, exposing himself on stage. Eliott has always been naked, when it comes to him. It’s useless for him to cover himself up, it's too late by a long shot. Nikolai has already seen it all. He's the only one who has seen it all.

Eliott had met up with him for coffee at a café close to Jardin du Luxembourg, thinking that the window to the past was forever closed and that history couldn't reach him. But nothing is ever that simple. The way Nikolai had emphasized _everything_ , left very little doubt as to what he meant, when he told him that he has left everything behind. "For you, Eliott." And Eliott can't blame him for anything. 

Maybe because it had been so close to Eliott's 18th birthday by the time their involvement became public  knowledge, people were misguided by the delusional idea that it would make a difference to his ability to know what he wanted. He didn't see why he shouldn't be trusted with making the distinction between what he loved and what he didn't love. He loved beautiful men, morning sex and messy, poetic Balanchine choreographies; he didn't love sleeping alone, and he was pretty fucking sure about all those things. Whether people cared about that or not, an effective trio of measurements put a lid on the whole debacle; Eliott moved, sealed his lips and Nikolai resigned from his position at the school. That was the latest tea he got from SAB, otherwise they've left him in peace since the investigation closed. The suspicions against Nikolai were written off as unsubstantiated because Eliott refused to testify or participate in any other way. It was out of the question and out of his life. He just wanted to keep quiet until everyone forgot he ever spoke. He was already in Paris by then, struggling to feel familiarity with the streets he used to walk as a child. It had been more difficult than he'd thought it would be. Until he saw the pole star. 

"I was in a hot seat for a while," Nikolai had said from across the table. He hadn’t changed with the circumstances, he was still the same. At least, he's not much for exaggerations. 

*

 _You want this, do you want this,_ Eliott says to himself when he touches Nikolai's lips for the first time since before everything went headlong, in a hundred miles per hour, to hell. Before his expectations were pulled out by their roots and everything became the proverbial cliché. During the turbulent last two months of the previous year, Eliott couldn't rid himself of the feeling that he was the posterboy of a poorly written script, worse than a moth-eaten Harlequin trope, in which the characters lacked souls and only served as the surface for projections of the readers' primitive ideas of humans and love.

Last time they were this close, Nikolai was fully occupied with trying to keep a furious Eliott quiet outside of the faculty quarters at SAB. "So that's how it's gonna be?" Eliott had shouted at him. He didn't have to add _After everything that we've said and done_. It all lay there between them; the mess they had made, crowned by a studded garland of broken promises, verbal and unspoken.

"I'm in the middle of a fucking meeting," Nikolai said. Eliott knew that. He could see the puzzled faces through the panorama window of the teachers' unit. Nikolai had looked at Eliott like he was a walking disaster, radiating the concern of someone wildly trying to figure out how to minimize its destruction while bracing for the impact. He hated him for looking at him like that, it rang too many bells of truth, and hated the tendency for chaos that spread from the inside and out, which Nikolai had unmasked a long time ago. "Don't do anything stupid, Eliott." 

"Say hi to Saskia," Eliott had said, and left.

*

Eliott was in his second to last year at SAB when Nikolai came. It didn't take long for Eliott to identify him as the one individual he needed to bed more than any other living person he that he knew of. So he chased after him. He saw beauty, grace, experience and soon a nervously hidden interest. Nikolai had tried to cling to propriety and didn’t cave immediately, but it shortly became a game of provocation and sweet, heady little drops of response. Soon, Eliott could feel Nikolai's eyes burning from across the studio and smug sense of satisfaction hit him. _got you_.

One intoxicated night everything had culminated. It was wrong but only a matter of time, at that point. Occasion after torturous occasion had led them closer to the fire. From the covert looks, in class and then when passing each other in the corridors; through a dishonest request for tutoring on Eliott's behalf with physical corrections that burned like fire, and finally to an opening night when Eliott hadn’t been feeling well during the performance but stumbled into the following dinner anyway, pretending like nothing. Nikolai treated him like an adult, likely with questionable motives. They had revolved around each other that whole evening. "It's no wonder you're having a hard time, finding your place here. You're not like the others. I've never met someone like you," Nikolai had told him outside of the restaurant, looking like he knew he'd said too much. Eliott had felt so fucking seen.

He gave Eliott a lift home that night. He thought he could physically feel how Nikolai’s ties to morals and professional protocol were coming loose, sitting next to him in the front seat of his electric Chevrolet. Knowing that something had to give, Eliott got out of the car and left the door standing wide open upon entering his building. He heard Nikolai's footsteps in the stairs within a minute later. There he stood, trapped by the last flickering tendrils of hesitation, before wholeheartedly succumbing to the attraction that put him in Eliott's apartment at one in the morning in the first place. Within the course of minutes, they were undressing each other in Eliott's bedroom. That had been the last of that student - teacher barrier. From then on out, they operated in a different paradigm. 

It was almost beyond him, he had been sexually starstruck to the point where he thought he was dreaming, even though he had watched it all unfurl and very much instigated it to begin with. He was crazy about seeing Nikolai in his sheets. He had about 500 photos of him, with tousled chestnut hair and mildly reproachful eyes gazing up at Eliott from his white bed linen, just from his own bedroom. He must have been aware of the implications should the wrong eyes see them, already at that point.

Eliott had been content staying in bed with him for a long time, being all body and no brain. Sex for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and then take-out in the early hours of the morning. _My bunny,_ Nikolai used to call him, which Eliott liked. "You’re cute. And relentless."

*

Eliott had lived alone for three semesters and wasn’t any good at it. At almost eighteen years, he had already begun to feel that maybe he’d lived enough. His brain had always felt a little faulty wired. A failed design, where the synapses lacked some vital constituent that was supposed to light up when he went too dark and to balance him. And he couldn't sleep. 

It wasn't that he lacked inspiration. He was perfectly able to love. He was sad doing the things he loved, though. There was always the inescapable notion that it was all meaningless in the end. Even in times when he was doing reasonably well. It consumed him. He wondered why other people didn't think about it.

When he started to attract attention as a dancer, it worsened. Expected to excel at what had been his first true love, but that all the same was pointless, he had to struggle for air. Did people go about their lives, feeling that there was a purpose to their endeavors? How very fucking self-satisfied, he used to think.

But he loved dancing, he really did and he still does. It'll follow him everywhere he goes. It’s a complicated relationship. In spite of almost fucking things up many times, it’s what has kept him going. Alive. What's more, it’s what he’s good at. Dancing is what generates the most praise, in his life, other than a few other skills that you'd have to come closer to find out about.

When Nikolai became his lover, Eliott had happily given the reins to him. He tried to live through his experience and to engineer a safe space for himself in it, where he was camouflaged from intrusive thoughts. Even though all he initially had were stolen nights, they soon evolved into days and weekends. It moved from the sweaty confinement of bedrooms to happy recklessness in the streets of Greenwich Village. The closer they grew, the more reality complained. Nikolai soon walked a thin line between them and discovery every day. They turned school into a lustful minefield. It alienated Eliott further from the other people in his class. Nikolai was the cherry on top of all the things he didn't tell them. Eliott treasured his cherry, though. He took pleasure in staring Nikolai down while he was teaching, until he wrapped-up the class thirty minutes early and sent everyone home, except Eliott.

They spent a week in Pensacola on Santa Rosa Island in Florida during the spring of 2018, where Nikolai owned a house. Eliott had in a conversation referred to what they we’re engaging in as _emotionally ambiguous fucking, with vacations_ , to which Nikolai interjected; “What's ambiguous about this to you?” He had put his book away and Eliott laid down on him. “Is that what you want?” 

“It’s what I’ve got,” Eliott had replied. 

Nikolai started saying that he was going to leave his wife. _I'm going to leave, and be with you, moy zaichik._ Eliott didn't care in the beginning. All he was interested in was the sex and thrill. He hadn’t even been jealous. But in the throes of deteriorating psychological health, their illegitimate relationship and everything that happened during it, he had gone from skeptical to cautiously hopeful, and later to desperate for it to come true. He thought that nobody could save him, but Nikolai. It operated as a self-fulfilling prophecy. Nikolai became his advocate and soldier of fortune; he stood up for him when the school faculty started to get tired of his unpredictability, which made itself known by increasing frequency. Nikolai saw past that, and he never blamed him for fucking up. He didn’t say a bad word when Eliott cut contact with everyone and skipped premiers. Instead, he patched it up for him each time. Maybe, he understood.

Eliott would get a text or a visit with news about a reluctant agreement on behalf of the board, that they would give him another chance, personally delivered by Nikolai. Maybe, Nikolai cared more about that Eliott remained enrolled than he did himself. He believed in formalization and education.

"Pretend to be grateful when you see them," Nikolai reminded him once.

"I am grateful." Eliott had put the console to the video games down and proceeded to express just how grateful he was. It wasn't a lie, but the board would never taste any of the appreciation he felt, or expressed, toward Nikolai. There's no telling what would have happened to Eliott if it wasn't for him.

Eliott was always stumbling around the minimum acceptable effort, enough for it to mostly pass unnoticed. His aptitude came with some margin that not everyone had the luxury of enjoying. Plus, when you know how to make people feel good about themselves, there's surprisingly little they wouldn't overlook. 

He is sensitive. He has been made aware of that personality trait since childhood. Historically, especially during the last two years before moving to Paris, it hadn't taken much to set him off route and start spiraling out of control. Sometimes the default, performance related anxiety with a touch of panic and the recurring thought that he was nothing but an emotional prostitute, offering his body to cure his soul, was enough to turn his mind into a place where nobody could live. And the notion of that his affair with Nikolai could have remained a one-time-thing, if he hadn't been so fucked up, made him feel like a monster. A needy, psychologically flawed monster.

Eliott made his own psychotropic cocktails. It diverged from what the psychiatrists had prescribed, but he didn’t take his pills in excess, he just wanted to make it through life with himself by his side. He had many, both pills and psychiatrists. That started when he was younger, when he first started to have fantasies about disappearing. 

His instinct of self-preservation had suffered. In September Nikolai left on a family vacation which Eliott and he had argued themselves to pieces about (and still he went, asshole). Eliott hadn't slept in days and really needed to, and it didn’t seem as such a horrible outcome if he never woke up. It wasn’t that he wanted to die; he was in a cul-de-sac and the only way out of there was in Toronto at his mother-in-law’s, as far as Eliott knew. Someone's cul-de sac-was all it ever would become of him. He didn’t care what happened to him, but he was scared that nobody would find him dead and he holed up in school with benzodiazépine and bourbon. Nobody had been around, they were performing. It was in a back room to the student kitchen, rarely used except for occasional naps between class and rehearsal when tiredness became too unbearable. That’s why he was there too, when it came down to it. 

Sensing that something was more than normally off, Nikolai interrupted his vacation and searched for him. They had known each other in a personal sense for six months by then. He had put Eliott under adequate care and then took him home to the brownstone he shared with his wife. "I’m not letting you stay by yourself," he said to Eliott in the car. He looked at his medical chart, laying across his legs, saying _status: unconscious, diagnosis: intoxication (manner: intentional overdose, suicide attempt?)_ To Eliotts weak protest, Nikolai just said no. Eliott had been too tired to insist. He had pleaded for Nikolai's secrecy.

“Fine,” he had said, finally.

Nikolai and his wife, Saskia, began nursing him back to life; she did it mostly by feeding him, and offering an unexpected, short-term form of kinship. Eliott spent a few nights fascinatedly listening to her talk while she cooked for them, drinking wine on a highchair by the kitchen island. She didn't care about his age either. He thought that maybe that was a Russian thing, and was surprised when he later found out she was Canadian. She played old records and talked about how she went to ballet school on Cuba when she was younger, in a manner that made it seem like it happened a century ago although she was no older than Nikolai. Not even forty and it seemed like she was already looking at life in the rearview mirror.

Nikolai snuck into the guest bedroom each night, when she, their nine-year-old son and the rest of the house was asleep and did his fair share of nursing-back-to-life with slightly different means. They had sex and whispered sweet nothings to each other until the sky started to turn purple and Nikolai had to go back. Eliott recognized it as a bizarre set-up and got back to his place as soon as the hours he was awake outnumbered those he spent sleeping. Nikolai became the kind of love he knew. At that time, it was love, in his perception. What would be the point of saying it hadn't been, even if a single, never-fading star on the other side of the Atlantic later on would prove you had been fooling yourself. 

"After the holidays, I'm going to leave her," Nikolai had said after that. It seemed like a lifetime. Eliott had believed in him and bided his time, and it irrefutably had seemed to be the direction things were going in, until Saskia saw what she saw, in a moment of incaution. Eliott had the habit of reminding Nikolai, whenever he had to be at home, what he could get at other places. At Eliott's place, for example. _I won’t wash your smell off. Ty nuzhen mne,_ he replied to the photo Eliott had sent, aiming for just that type of reaction. And then all hell broke loose. It had been just before Thanksgiving. Within a few days later, it had become clear to Eliott that things wouldn't go the way he had thought.

"I can't just walk out. Not like this." It doesn’t take more words than that, to overturn almost a full year of planning the opposite. 

A mere six weeks later, and Eliott was already on his way out of there. In between that, he decided to break Nikolai's denial in the most radical of ways. It hadn't been a drunken mishap or trivial fuck. He hadn't been confused. No one had been confused. They could sit in their brownstone and try to believe that was the case but Eliott knew better. That knowledge was all he had to keep him company. He had chosen the most beautiful photos of Nikolai that he had.

*

Now Nikolai tells him, _you were wonderful on stage_. He leans his head in, to the side of Eliott's face. "Come here. I'm so proud. You make me proud, moy zaichik." Eliott finds himself in his embrace once again. It’s difficult to talk to Nikolai, now. It used to be one of his favorite activities. "And I make you horny," he continues and grasps Eliott's dick through his jeans.

He tastes just like he used to do, and rum and cigarettes. If it had been four months ago or even less, Eliott would have lost it and accelerated. Nikolai is still very beautiful but Eliott's body feels empty. 

Nikolai pulls off his own shirt and Eliott disentangles and reaches for his glass. He downs whatever transparent liquor is in it. It doesn’t matter what it is.

"You don’t know how much I missed you."

"I missed you too," Eliott mutters.

"You’ve grown," Nikolai says, hands traveling over his arms. "They’ve put you to work." 

It makes Eliott laugh. "Maybe," he shrugs. "I’ve grown older. Officially a man now."

"A man," Nikolai says and pulls back to look at him. "You’ve always been. Young age, old soul. I called on your birthday," he continues and kisses Eliott's neck. 

"Yeah."

"Yeah?"

"I know."

"And?"

"I was busy."

"I see," Nikolai says. He removes himself undramatically and reaches for a cigarette. "Something tells me the city of romance has been keeping you really busy." He gives Eliott an observant once-over. "Who’s your friend?"

Eliott looks up at that.

"You looked very friendly yesterday. I'm sure I wasn't the only one to make that observation," Nikolai continues. "What an exit. You can’t blame me for asking."

Eliott doesn’t say anything. Although it would be the right thing to do, telling Nikolai about who Lucas is to him would feel like a violation. Like dragging Lucas' name in dirty tracks of history. Where he shouldn’t be.

He should have explained. He knows that. Word, as it usually does, had spread anyway. Lucas knew things. It didn't take a genius to figure out that he didn't approve of what he knew. Still young and definitely of a wild mind but already too smart for his own good, Lucas probably had almost everything figured out except for those things that no one knew, except Eliott. And Nikolai.

 _You fucked your way to the top._ He could see how Lucas ended up with that conclusion, and he had kept him behind the curtains of a more complicated story. He wished for them to stand there together pretending like the other side didn't exist, and he could keep the drapes closed with one arm until it went numb, as long as Lucas still wanted him.

The first time Eliott heard Lucas speak, he on some level already knew that he was done for. As Lucas opened up to him, his heart had cracked wide open and he didn’t know whether he was feeling joy or sorrow at times. It had opened a window to heartbreak that he could never close. He stood reverentially and thoroughly serious in front of what transpired between them. 

Being with Lucas was like sitting in front of a mirror together. Eliott saw him, and felt his own silhouette sharpen, as he heard fragments of his own stream of thought come from Lucas' mouth, dressed in his words and quick, colorful French. He loved to lie next to him in bed, molded to his body, putting his feet to his and to listen to how he talked about something profound and then suddenly erupt in laughter. And sometimes in the reverse order, starting in laughter, going deeper. He would put his fingertips to Lucas' skin, and follow those little trails that he knows by heart. Lonely roads winding from himself into Lucas, all the way into his lion's heart.

He wasn't sure Lucas was completely aware of what he possessed. Eliott had never felt such radical embracement. Lucas had bravely let him know about how each step he took with him, he was taking in a direction that he in a certain sense hadn’t gone before. But he’d sure been in a hurry to go there, once they started moving together. For all his newness, he wasn’t insecure. So good and confident with his body. He had taken Eliott like a storm in that respect of their budding relationship as well. When he showed up on his doorstep, asking for them to be together in every sense of the word, Eliott had been so shocked and overwhelmed with emotion that he almost forgot how to penetrate. He had tried to project courage but when he shared his body with Lucas for the first time, his hands were shaking. And nothing before Lucas had felt the way he did.

When he spent the night at the flatshare for the first time, and Lucas was almost falling asleep, but still lightly running his fingers over Eliott's neck, he found himself looking at him. And he kept watching; he needed nothing more than to keep doing that. No cigarettes, no sleep, no light, no sound. Only to watch Lucas and carefully touch his white skin, smooth as condensed milk to Eliott's tongue. His face and hairline had still been a little damp. Eliott watched Lucas' soft pink lips and ocean eyes close as he fell asleep, laying bare that ancient soul of his that felt connected to his own as if by a fifth force of nature. There was so much he could say but he kept quiet, thinking _Is this what it’s like?_ I love you, I already love you.

Irrationally, Eliott had found himself wanting to call Nikolai, and tell him about how he fell in love. That his heart had grown a third chamber that expanded and constricted, tore and soothed, a room for Lucas where he could stay forever without paying rent, or come and go as he'd see fit. It would always be there. He wanted to ask Nikolai if he had known all along, that it could be like this.

Eliott sits completely still, submerged in vivid imagery of them together. His throat burns, but not from cigarettes or alcohol. He shouldn't have come here. It seemed like it had only been five minutes, between unwrapping that gift, remembering just the moment when its inspirational photo was taken, and Lucas going apeshit off the deep end about it, leaving him with a shattered mind and inflamed heart. Eliott hadn’t been prepared. But he is irrefutably guilty of everyone's grief, including his own.

"So? You can talk, Eliott."

Eliott rubs his face with his palms, and nods. It’s torture, to talk about Lucas, but Nikolai doesn’t understand or care about that.

"He’s talented," Nikolai says.

He rolls a cigarette and lights it, glancing at Nikolai, smoking shirtless by the balcony door. How very alluring he had been. As perfect as an imaginative lover, Eliott had been crazy about his smile and deep voice, a level of manliness that had been new to him. He had absolutely been intimidated at first, mind blown by having him as a teacher. Nikolai was iconic and respected both by traditionalists and the progressive falang. As he looks expectantly at Eliott and the surprise of seeing him again has faded, it all appears so paint by numbers. It hurts, how familiar can turn strange. How merciless love is. It won’t be engineered. There's no telling who will come out in one piece on the other side of it. And their story tells nothing new. One life saved; another one fucked over.

"I’ve been doing well here," Eliott says instead. "It was a good thing that I moved."

"A good thing? Necessary, maybe. But not good."

"I can’t go back."

"You don’t have to. Once you graduate, you can do what you want. New York isn't a bad place; circumstances were."

Presented with the vaguely hinted option, he does an inner backflip and recoils. His thoughts are erratic and incomplete, but the instinct to flee isn't. He shakes his head. "It’s not that." He has already dedicated deep and considered thought, enough for a lifetime, to those circumstances; why and how everything got so thoroughly fucked up and how much of it that had been his fault.

"I’m just saying it’s an option."

"It’s not."

"The French. I don’t like them," Nikolai says and shrugs his shoulder. 

_Some of them aren’t nuts about you either._

"But I’m here. Just like you always wanted. ABT wants me when this has calmed down but I'm ready to let that go."

"What about you and Saskia?" 

"There's no I and Saskia. I already told you."

Eliott puts out his cigarette. It can't be helped. "I'm grateful for everything you've done for me. And for ...you, before. But I can't," he says, voice failing him.

"You can't what?" Nikolai asks after a beat.

The knock coming from the direction of the front room is so unexpected that Eliott has trouble comprehending what it is, at first. Then, everything clicks very quickly. He looks at Nikolai, who doesn’t understand anything; he was just kicking back with an ex-lover, drowning the last of their complications in rum together before reconnecting for real, lighting a fire under slumbering physical memories.

"The fuck," Nikolai mutters after a moment, and starts for the hallway.

"Wait," Eliott says and raises a hand. Nikolai watches him bewilderedly as he gets up and walks across the floor.

It wasn't supposed to happen like this. It was supposed to be quiet and only them. Lucas could part the curtains as much as he wanted, little by little. Eliott doesn't think he'd be able to do it alone, too frightened that Lucas wouldn't like what he saw. He should have known that Lucas wouldn't accept being kept in the dark, bullshit maneuvers were below him. As he opens the door and Lucas' face goes dark, Eliott wants to cover it with his hands. _You're not supposed to see this, close your eyes and wait for it to be over._ He’s an idiot for coming there, his darling idiot. And then, Lucas disappears the way he came, like an unruly, furious, beautiful whirlwind.

Eliott stumbles back into the house and has almost forgotten that Nikolai is there, his mind is skating over which direction Lucas went. He went somewhere and if he’s still somewhere, Eliott can find him. 

“What the fuck was that?” Nikolai says, incredulous and seriously peeved, and still half-naked. “How did he know where you were?”

"I have to go,” Eliott says.

"Are you serious?" Nikolai comes up to Eliott as he fusses with his shoes, pushes his feet and shoe laces into them. “Don’t go after him. Stay here.”

“No.”

“You’re not thinking straight.” He catches Eliott’s face in his hands when he comes back up. “You know what this is. And I know, as well.”

Eliott sighs and covers his mouth; it comes out as a sob, he sounds like an animal to his own ears. He needed to do this, it should just have happened much, much earlier. “No, you don’t know. You don’t know shit,” he says and looks around wildly for his jacket. 

Nikolai fumbles for what's left of them, holding onto Eliott's head but he gets his hands off of him, and then shoves his own into the wall. The sharp pain that it inflicts shoots a sudden, odd taste into his mouth and he bends forward, shouting into his hand. 

Nikolai takes a few steps back and stops, and raises his hands. “Calm down.”

Eliott drives his hand into his hair, rubs his face, hearing the words directed at him but he can’t process them normally. Nikolai’s voice could just be noise from outside, until he runs out of patience and shouts at him.

“He's a kid.” It's the first time he raises his voice. Nikolai walks aimlessly around the hallway. “You need more than that.”

“He's not a kid,” Eliott says under his hand. “I can't describe him.” His hand is bleeding and his heart is bleeding. “I’ve fallen in love with him. I love him.”

Nikolai stays quiet for a long while, gauging his confession. “And he, does he love you? Does he know you?”  

Eliott has destroyed it, now, but the most beautiful thing Nikolai ever did for him was paving the way for the fortuity that let him cross paths with Lucas.

"Thank you." Eliott says. "I have to go."

When he steps out on the street is empty. It’s quiet and Lucas is gone, just like he was never there.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter wrote itself long before I even intended to include a part from Eliott's POV. I  started making notes on what I imagined about his past and it grew into something more, which I hope gives you a deeper understanding of  him and his actions. And I'd like to emphasize that it's not meant to serve as an excuse for anything or portraying his character as a victim - it's just his story. Maybe it explains a little bit of why things happened the way they did in the previous chapter. Eliott has lived through a lot and has gone through periods of suffering. The relationship with Nikolai has without doubt affected almost every area of his life. The events taking place during the time they were seeing each other, together with Eliott's state of mind blurred the boundaries between love and dependency, hope and disillusionment. In the way I see it, Eliott has been torn between feeling anger and guilt towards Nikolai. After their affair became known he was initially upset and angry with Nikolai for not coming through on what he had promised, but as shit really hit the fan (by Eliott's own contribution), the anger gave way to remorse. He struggles with dissociating between affection and over-reliance. Aware of how Nikolai has helped him, he is in some ways a hostage of the situation. Because Eliott is all heart, he really is to me. But he is absolutely not always making good calls, some of them are even bordering on unforgivable.  
>  I got a question about the timeline. For clarity:  
>    
>  The second-to-last performance happened on Friday March 22nd. After that show, Eliott was given the ominous painting.  
>    
>  The final performance of Romeo and Juliet happened Saturday 23rd, a few hours earlier. It was after that performance that Lucas discovered that Nikolai was there.  
>    
>  The events described in this chapter happened March 24th in the AM, eg after midnight, Sunday 24th. 


	27. Grand Allegro 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear reader,
> 
> This chapter dives into Lucas' mind. It's pretty short and it might feel unsatisfying if you were hoping for a speedy recovery and for a solution to what happened in the previous chapters. But as they say, sometimes you gotta fall before you fly.
> 
> Sorry about taking so long to update, my writing time is diminished as I'm trying to finish my doctoral thesis 😣 And laaawd it's a struggle to prioritize writing a thesis, instead of this. A struggle, I tell you. But even if the updates are a little bit more sparse these days, rest assured, this story won't be abandoned. It just takes more time to finish each chapter.
> 
> My eternal gratitude to you ❤️  
> A big hug to Ellie and Rocìo.

**Sunday, Monday and Tuesday. March.**

**the** **_apartment_ ** **// A requiem for Romeo**

The sun breaks through the window and travels in a rectangle across the room. From the top of the bed, along the wall to the bookshelf on the other side. There it climbs steeply toward the ceiling, before it disappears behind the roof of an adjacent house and Lucas' room falls dark. He lies in his bed, unseeingly letting the hours go by. His gaze has turned inwards; he watches a ceaselessly playing, big screen-projection of past time. Erratic, jumping 8-millimeter-frames and long, unbroken sequences merge in the screenplay of Eliott and himself. Their short-lived flirt with something real; domesticity.

 

 _His back in Lucas' bed, pale-nude and bent like a bay under a blue cotton ocean._ Lucas had been on his way to dive in with him, but he had to stop and stare. The golden ratio had nothing on the splendid, fragile curve of Eliott’s spine. Lucas had watched until cold creeps broke out on Eliott's skin. A song had been playing in the room and Lucas slid in, next to him. 

 

 _Eliott wiping condensation from the bathroom mirror_ , _groaning quietly when catching sight of himself in it._  "What is it?" Eliott had jumped a little at the sound of Lucas' voice, thinking that he was out of earshot. "My face," he muttered. He pressed out toothpaste on his toothbrush and stepped away from the mirror. "Like a ghost's." Lucas had bent down and picked up his clothes from the floor, and pinched Eliott's butt on his way up, making him jump once more.  "That's offensive," he said. "To ghosts," Eliott said.

"T'es beau, putain."

 

 _Wide eyes in their direction, as they came out._ It had happened like an adagio at first, through small, gentle gestures, and then a grand allegro; all at once. Lucas almost hadn’t been able to stop that watermelon-kiss a few weeks ago. The few times he’d had the chance of doing so since then, he had secretly indulged in touching Eliott in front of others for purely vain reasons, which he felt guilty about. He couldn't help that Eliott was the fucking bomb or that he was flattered by being his person. Maybe he would have felt more guilty about that narcissistic little delight, if he hadn't also lost his whole, aching heart to him. 

 

 _Eliott habitually chewing on his bottom lip when focusing._ He always did, wherever his mind was; on combinations, on the book he was reading or on Lucas. He was always very focused while watching him work his body, biting his lip raw until he couldn't keep his mouth closed anymore.

 

 _Eliott’s fingers flipping through the photographs from Lucas' archive, inspecting them with interest._ He had been curious and asked if he could have a look. “Unless they’re private?” They were, but Lucas didn’t mind. He had caught Eliott trying to sneak one of them into his back pocket. “Why this one?” he asked, after pushing his fingers into Eliott’s armpit, snatching it from him with his other hand. It was a shot of Lucas, angled from the side and slightly from behind. Chloé had taken it last summer at one of the Paris Plages. A magnolia tree in the background made it look like he was in the proximity of actual, spontaneously occurring nature, not sitting by a row of imported greenery on a flank of the Seine. "Le roi de la jungle," Eliott had said and put his lips to the photo. "King energy. I want to put it next to my bed." They had looked through the rest of them and Lucas remembers thinking that those photos captured life before Eliott perfectly. A lackluster, derivative compromise; an attempt at finding something that wasn't there. He hates those photos.

 

 _The echo of Eliott's laughter and randomly selected words._ _Where's the sugar?_ His teeth will rot from the amount he puts in his coffee. So many words filter through, words without consequences. That's where the biggest betrayal resides. It's not in the magnificent gestures or grandiose emotion but in the plain conjunction of their existences. _Waking up in the morning, finding Eliott in the kitchen, making coffee. Noticing that has one of Lucas' t-shirts on. "Mine was yucky." Passing him the sugar and staying with him forever._  

 

Eliott's face lurks on him in shadows. The feeling that it evokes morphs, and his heart cramps. A face with too much power over him, it was dangerous even when it was doing good. 

In the silence between the long, involuntary stretches of dark daydreaming, questions are posed. They’re only met by more silence, so they come again. He doesn’t know if there’s something he should have seen, done or understood. Everything had been so good to him. There must be some mitigating circumstance to uncover, some detail that would paint the picture whole, into something he could comprehend. He doesn’t understand and it drives him to dissect the previous Friday and Saturday until they're ingrained between his sweaty temples. It's as if his whole life took place during those two days and now he's on the other side of it, wondering what the fuck had happened. Although everything seems mockingly clear, there’s nothing but fog in his head. All of this is beyond his intellectual capacity. He can’t fucking understand. What he had felt was too good to be left in the shade by a dirty, double-cross fuck. The intrusive image of Nikolai is etched into his retinas. He and Lucas, they would never understand each other. They had looked at the same world thinking it was their private universe, and then they stood there, powerless when finding out that someone had trespassed. The past had retaliated, in an act of poetic justice aimed at Lucas' heart and life nerve, punishment for never getting over the jealousy, for never daring to ask Eliott about the intricacies of his past; he had juggled that issue like a member of the Magic Circle. He had always changed the topic as soon as it breached the surface, and Eliott had let him. They fell away from it with a couple of insecure exchanges of looks, in perfect harmony.

He hates himself for buying into it too quickly, and pities himself for being so naive, but that racking hybrid of emotion is nothing compared to what he feels toward Eliott. He had walked around Lucas' home so naturally. How was Lucas ever supposed to have guessed that he wouldn't stay? Lucas still sees the lines of his shoulders as he rounds the corner between the living room and the kitchen. His home suffers an untimely demise. Each room that he enters sighs and mourns its loss. 

He stays in bed except for when nature calls. For a few days, the only movement that he sees is his own shadow, except for doves worryingly flapping around outside the window. Manon and Mika stare after him as he moves through the apartment, ghostlike in t-shirt and shorts. They let him be for a little while.

Looking at the crack in his ceiling, he remembers the physics that made it deeper. If he ever has sex like that again, he should probably consider himself really fucking lucky.

As soon as the outside world makes his eyelids flutter, he closes them and sleeps his way through the beginning of the week in fifteen-minute shifts. Unconscious bliss is the only means of evasion he can find. It leaves him awake at unpredictable hours, though. Mostly nighttime. Amid the calls and texts from Eliott, he presses Block contact. Something he never would have imagined ever doing, prior to Saturday. A press of his thumb, an assault on his feelings. Naturally, it’s too difficult to persevere anyway. He doesn’t know who is the most piteous, Eliott who seems blind to the fact that he’s being ignored or himself, who unblocks him just to be able to see how the calls keep coming. But he doesn’t pick up. It's too late. By Tuesday, the calls are growing sparser. _Bingo, mother fucker_.

 

**Wednesday March 27. 16.37**

**_the apartment_ ** **// loneliness has brothers & sisters**

On Wednesday Manon knocks on his door. Lucas is curled up like a cheese doodle in his bed, already turned toward the door, and is about to open his mouth in some sort of response when she opens it.

She's wearing pyjamas and slippers fashioned like plush animals, and she carries a tray with a steaming bowl of something on it. "It's ramen," she says, pushing the door shut behind her. Her nose sounds clogged. 

"Thank you," he says when she comes up to the bed. He struggles to sit up, mostly to be nice to her.

She searches for a place to put the tray, eventually placing it on the floor next to him. She looks around indecisively until Lucas pulls his legs up into lotus position.

"What happened?" asks Manon and sits down. 

It's quiet for a long while. "We broke up. Nikolai showed up. You saw." As he tries to recap the events of the week before, he realizes exactly how humiliated he is. It doesn't help the recapitulation. "And… Eliott went with him." 

Manon waits silently next to him. Her slippers look ridiculous; the dogs' ears droop sadly to the floor.

"He went with him?"

"He cheated. I found them. Together." 

Manon closes her eyes for a long moment. "Dick," she says under her breath.

Absurdly, he doesn't want people to speak badly of Eliott, but he says nothing about that.

"I don't know what to say," she sighs.

"Me neither." 

She picks up the bowl of noodle soup from the floor. "You have to eat, still."

Lucas shakes his head, but takes the bowl when she nods and puts it in his lap. 

"It looks like worms."

"Your favorite," she jokes weakly.

He eats a few spoons of broth and puts it back on the floor. Them he lies back down, a little warmer inside. "I'll finish it later." 

Manon remains by the foot of his bed and shuffles back against the wall. "Do you want me to leave?"

"I don't want to be alone," he says; as soon as he does, he realizes how true it is. 

She lays down next to him, mirroring his fetal position. “Welcome to the joyous world of loving men.”

“Thanks.”

"Can you come to class tomorrow?"

Lucas shakes his head. “No, it’s … a really bad idea.”

"What are you worried about?"

He looks at her quietly, pleading for her understanding. 

"Eliott isn't there," she adds after a while. "I haven't seen him this week." Against his own wishes, Lucas sees Eliott’s face as he looks at Nikolai, as he lives next to him. _Fuck you, so much,_ he thinks and rubs a hand over his face. 

Manon touches his hair and if he could summon any emotion beyond stale grief it would probably be gratitude, towards her. She caresses his cheek like a child's. Lucas lets out a long exhale. If he could at least cry he’d be happy for the relief. But he has become stagnant. It was all too much. Too much won and too much lost. Someone shot his marvelous kite down from the sky, and he's left staring at the limp string and his crashed, colorful dream. He looks at Manon for a long time without saying anything. “I don’t know what to do now.”

"It’s going to be okay. Not now, but in a while. And until then, loneliness has brothers and sisters." 

He passes out, finally, embracing sleep and Manon's bare arm with heart and soul.

 

**Friday March 29. 12.00**

**_l’École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris_ // your tedious dance**

 

He is very tired but goes to class, after lengthy assurances from Manon that Eliott still is absent, but primarily out of fear of the consequences if he wouldn't. Auguste had told him he would take care of it, but he can't cover for him forever.

He doesn't know what to do with the black, cold hurt, in the center of his chest. It grows with inertial and centrifugal force simultaneously, sucking him in while expanding.  

Every part of school screams _Eliott_ at him. Sometimes shortly followed by his own name and voice. It's like an illness, an ailment that he's forced to live with. From now on, he's invisibly limp. He'd had everything. And when everything is taken away from you, you don’t go back to normal. You go to a foreign place. Another dimension, an obscure landscape where nobody speaks your language and the sun they point at is nothing but a cold, blinding light that chills when it should warm. And it’s so incredibly boring. Everything goes back to normal, but he doesn't.  


	28. Grand Allegro 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear reader,  
>    
>  I'm not sure what to say about this chapter, other than it's Lucas' journey and we're following him, both investigating and observing what he's going through. Writing it, I wanted to go deep into what it really is to be heartbroken. It's many things, and because of that I also wanted to probe it a bit from an outside perspective, to look at it from a distance. It's a pretty complex state of mind and impinges feelings, thoughts & behaviors while reeling on a rocking board, with reason in one end, and irrationality in the other  
>  .  
>  Hope that kind of made sense. I also hope you'll have the patience to stay with him (and me 😊). No night lasts forever.  
>    
>  Thanks for reading and pretty please, leave a comment ❤️❤️❤️

**Tuesday April 2.**

**_l’École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris_ // april’s fool**

The passing of time is a cruel thing. Spring bursts out overnight, unavoidably, but unexpectedly to Lucas. Even if Eliott still were there with him, the cold mornings when they kept warm under the covers, that he so clings to, are gone. He couldn’t recreate that feeling in whatever way he tried; the outside world wouldn’t collaborate. Two weeks is a lifetime, but passes like a freight train. 

During the first days of April it’s warm enough to skip the jacket, but he takes his denim one anyway.  It’s warm enough to walk home from school one afternoon, too. He hasn't done that in a while; he hasn’t had the time - always a place to be, some lovely errand to disappear into. The bushes along the Seine around the bridge to Neuilly are infused with swarms of green. He hadn't thought he would watch those hives of incipient flowers alone this year.

Mute and purposeless like a bird without a song, he is left to try and make sense of it all. He takes in the circumstances of his existence with mild disgust. It’s so anemic. Eliott took all colors and shapes with him when he left. It’s dull and abrasive; the flatness of it all hurts. The unparallelled tedium of Manon’s jokes (she's always two years behind on internet trends and can't even joke in text), her long disgusting hair in the bathroom sink that he has to fish up from the drain (a few times he's had no choice but to unscrew the whole pipe and clean it. An utter disgrace). And Mika, just in general. Watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing tv with them each night. He wonders if he would have chosen differently if he had known how second-rated and bland everything would be without Eliott.

 

**Thursday April 4.**

**_l’École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris_ // in absentia **

Some things can be carried out mechanically, because all that matters is to get them done. Like getting dressed in the morning, washing your face in the kitchen sink because the bathroom is occupied, and waiting for the bus to take you where you need to be, while staring emptily into existential nothingness. But dancing isn't one of those activities. The whole concept of getting something over with contradicts the purpose of it. Lucas is there to dance, and dances to be there. If anything, the idea is to not get it over with, but to make it last. And if you’re not doing it with all of yourself, you might as well give it a miss. He would have, if he could. 

Auguste gives Lucas a long, sideways glance when he joins his class on Monday, but he scapes him, feeling like he overstepped the boundaries with about a kilometer last time they spoke. Eliott is nowhere to be found, but somehow that doesn’t make it any easier. He is everywhere. In the studio corner where he always discarded his backpack;  or warming up a few steps behind Lucas by the barre and then when no one could see, moving up flush to him, by the same barre. His hologram is everywhere, useless mirages that fade to nothing when Lucas draws closer to them. For a moment deceivingly close, but absolutely no cigar. All places marked by Eliott's presence are abstract holes of absence now, and maybe it would be easier if he was there, in the flesh. At least it would be tangible, then.  The thought of what’s eating Eliott’s time is nauseating. Lucas will never ask anyone - he’ll never ask for a single thing with any connection to Eliott again. 

He can burn, together with all the lingering questions that Lucas thought he was the answer to.

*

Lucas marks his way through the classes and in between them, he studies his fellow students jealously. He dislikes them all with a vengeance, and wants to change his life for theirs. Except the small foxes, who he gets to spend the afternoon with. Without doing anything out of the ordinary, they're the best company he could imagine at this point. One of them glances warily at him while he warms up on the studio floor. Suspecting that he radiates misery through some incontinent rift to his person, he focuses on stretching and trying to look less of a ghost with a raped heart and cotton brain than what he feels. He imagines what he would say to him if he were to explain what had happened, when the young one trudges up to him. "Can you show me how to do a five-forty?" he asks. 

"Sure, I'll try" Lucas says. What else.

Rehearsing The Wind in the Willows is a welcome distraction, even if it only lasts for a few minutes, when the pianist plays and they're all in motion. With horror-stricken relief, Lucas realizes he should thank the lucky stars for this not happening earlier. If they were still doing Romeo and Juliet, he would have been so royally fucked. He wouldn't have been able to stick it out ‘til the end. Fucked with a twist - a ballet-school dropout. Maybe that's what it had been like for Eliott too, before he got out of New York and moved to Paris. Maybe he had been too heartbroken to face the perpetrator. Maybe he'd had the same difficulties looking at himself in the mirrors, seeing the downfall that was left. Lucas avoids the reflection of his own face, and turns down every instinct saying that all of this must be bridgeable. 

 

**Friday April 5. 19.52**

**_the apartment_ // white wine & cry **

Mika and Manon mean so well. Lucas arrives home to a dinner prepared in a way that indicates he's expected to sit down and eat with them. There are lit candles, three neatly arranged couverts and a bottle of wine on the table and it's all for his sake. He sneaks into his room and puts his bag on the floor. Plopping down on the chair by his desk, he starts drawing doodles on a piece of paper, entertaining the notion of staying right there, unless they forcibly bring him out. Which, naturally, they do. Well, kind of.

“Lucas,” Mika says with an impressive take on a tender voice. "Dinner’s ready.”

“Uh, yeah. I’m coming,” he says and shuffles into the kitchen. “I’m not very hungry, though.” 

“Gotta eat a little bit,” Mika says. He lifts up a large long-handled spoon from the pot on the stove, knocking it a few times against the rim, and blows on it.

“Listen to your daddy,” Manon says, pouring white wine in the glass in front of Lucas as he sinks down by the table. The room goes in yellow and dusky dark blue; in the candles and the April evening. 

“Not going to call him daddy,” he mutters. 

Mika puts the food on the table. “Maybe you should. Living with you guys has really let me develop my fatherly side.”

“Still. Dubious connotations.”

“It’s your favorite,” Manon says and lifts the lid to the pot. 

"Worms again?" 

"No, your real favorite."

Lucas has trouble remembering exactly what that should be; in Manon's interpretation it's something that seems more likely to appeal to her taste than anyone else's. He would like a steak administered intravenously.

“How was class?” she asks.  

"Fine.” Lucas makes two small piles of rice and Manon’s favorite food on his plate when Mika has sat down next to him. He moves it around a little with the fork. “Whatever… At least, I'll get the credits. But it’s-” he interrupts himself and shakes his head. “It’s not going well.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know… It’s like I’m handicapped or something. Physically.”

Mika breaks a piece of bread in two and dips it in a bowl of yoghurt sauce. "I heard that suddenly inflicted heartbreak during the infatuation phase of a relationship can cause physical damage. Like, it can literally break your heart.”

Manon stares at him incredulously, but Lucas only looks down at his food. “Mika.” 

He finishes his plate quicker than expected. He probably shouldn’t underestimate Manon’s cooking, because this has got to be her. “Traveled the whole galaxy to find out who asked,” he mumbles in Mika’s direction and takes a long swig of wine. Little cries of joy break from within his system for finally being fed properly.  Manon smiles satisfiedly when he provides himself with two new little piles of rice and spicy vegetables.

"I just mean it's understandable if you're not performing top level. I think it's good for you to be there, mentally," Mika says. 

"Yeah, totally. Even if it’s difficult.”

“It’s still your turf,  like … your scene.”

While Lucas was with Eliott, they went on as usual; leading normal, formulaic lives centered around practice, partying and soldiering on between one day and the next. _How did you stand it?_ He knows it because it’s his life as well; he was just granted a temporary respite and it’s over now. Eliott's entré in his existence seems like a strong heart-compression to the chest of someone who didn't know that he was slowly dying, because he kept so busy while it happened. Their lives are untouched, Lucas thinks while looking back and forth between Mika and Manon during the improvised pep-rally that they're engaging in. Eliott didn't happen to them. The difference between the three of them seems endless, in that moment.

“And it’s good in terms of … for distraction," Manon says.

He has troubles following the conversation and wonders if all of this is supposed to make him feel better. 

“Instead of drying up at home,” Mika chimes in again.

Lucas shakes his head silently and hesitates, staring at his fork. "He hurt me. It doesn't go away," he says, eventually.  Manon and Mika become quiet. He looks between them and explanations start pouring out of him. “I waited for him all night. And looked for him, all fucking night. I called him, ... I did everything. He just disappeared. And then, …”

“It’s so not cool of him to expect you to like… come running after him,” Manon says quietly.

Lucas blinks hard against a flash of Eliott’s startled face in the crack of the door. “I don’t think he expected that,” he says. “I do it, anyway. I did it, anyway.”

"I can't believe that guy."

"Which one of them?” Mika scoffs. “The one who hurt our baby like this or that asshole, showing up out of nowhere, thinking he could just ... _get it_? What kind of delusional dick does that?"

Two weeks ago, Lucas would have agreed, but he would have been wrong. Eliott was the pivotal component, acting both as the separator and merger of Lucas’ and Nikolai’s realities. His emotions were the answer to which one of those was valid; to what was misconception and what was truth. 

And Nikolai hadn't been delusional, at all. 

That’s the only reasonable conclusion and as it unfolds in him, it leaves a biting warmth in his throat, spreading to his eyes.

"Something about it doesn't sit quite right with me," Manon says. She looks concerned and spaces out for a few seconds. "It doesn't make any sense." She touches Lucas’ fingers, tensely clamped around his glass. "Have you talked to Eliott at all?" 

"No."

"Maybe you should?" she suggests carefully, caressing his hand.

 "I've got nothing to say to him."

"Well. Your behavior kinda communicates otherwise." 

Lucas feels his nostrils flare as he bites back and swallows the clammy hotness in his throat. He fixes his gaze on the little square of floor visible between the table and his knees "I can't … give him that."

Mika pours himself more wine and offers Lucas a refill, which he accepts. "You wouldn't be giving Eliott anything. It would be like, for your own sake," he says.

"I don't need anything."

Manon doesn't appear to have heard him. "For closure, then," 

Lucas suddenly loses his temper. "I don't want fucking closure!" he splutters. She looks a little taken aback and he immediately feels a pinch of bad conscience. Sighing, he puts his forehead in his palms. 

"Lucas, we're just trying to-" she starts over, but he seems to have grown allergic to her voice. 

"Why are you pushing for this?" Lucas shoves his chair back abruptly, gets up, and pushes it back in with a rattle. If they understood anything they'd be quiet, unless they mourn and hate with him, he thinks fragmentically, blind to his own havoc. "Just because you couldn't stay away from Charles, it doesn't mean everyone is as whipped as you," he says, and they do fall silent. Completely silent.

He needs to get out, away from the suffocating kindness and misplaced advice. They mean so well. "Thanks for dinner," he says quietly and leaves the kitchen, hearing a chair scrape against the floor and Mika telling her to _let him be_.

 

**Saturday April 6. 00.59**

**_the apartment_ // nocturnal animals**

Eliott comes into Lucas' dreams against his will, but that doesn't stop him from trying to milk the illusion of all it has got to offer. He sits across Lucas' lap, arms wrapped around him in a way that reminds of the snug grip of an octopus' tentacles. His lips are cool when he parts them against Lucas’ hot, tear-wet cheek; tongue against salty skin. 

Lucas wakes up shuddering. His dick doesn't care about his heart being broken; it's not the first time that there isn't a 1/1 coherence between those two. Comfortably semi-unconscious, still feeling the pressure of Eliott’s body against his own, he flees into an imaginary world where there is no contradiction in Eliott being his heartbreaker and sexual fantasy at the same time. In that world, he pulls Eliott up on all fours and they go at it, animal-style, hot and hard and relentless. And it's just them, as they should be. Eliott looks back at him, and his lips are moving. He influences Lucas like gasoline to a weakened fire. He can’t hear what Eliott is saying, but he's saying that he loves him, loves what he's doing to him and he’ll never tear them apart. Lucas’ hands are on him, they run up and down over his back, grasp his hair and trace his spine, trying to imprint him in his fingers. He can't disappear from his skin.

The pleasure he derives from it is excruciating. He comes with a sharp convulsion and a cry into the pillow. It has been so long since he felt anything remotely like Eliott's fantasy-touch that it nearly drives him out of his mind. He spends a few confused seconds grappling with the sensation of endlessly falling backwards through undefined space, fearing he'll never land again. 

He does, though. When he's done he leaves his room to clean up and get something to drink. 

The comprehension of great loss comes piecemeal. When you think yourself at the bottom of it, there are still new depths below to discover and he's starting to discern them, as he stands in the kitchen rinsing his hand in tap water. 

 _At least, you know this,_ Mika said, before dinner turned into a Dumped Anonymous support meeting. _You've felt this. So you know what to look for._ He knows what to look for, and that'll be his ruin.

 

**Saturday April 6. 13.14**

**_the apartment_ // build me up buttercup**

“I wasn’t sure I should tell you. But that’s why I even … mentioned it, to begin with.” 

It’s so warm outside; it feels like they’re inhabiting a different climate zone compared to just a week ago. Even though the sky is clear, it’s warm. Everything has woken up, dizzily trying to remember their purpose and routine. Every morning Lucas broods, thoughts going pointlessly back and forth like the pointer of a gauss meter. _Hibernate or participate?_ Once the representation of Eliott in his head has retracted its sharpest claws and become a little less painfully intrusive, Lucas doesn’t want him to go. He seizes him and holds him close to his chest, even though it only reinforces the vicious circle of clinging and repelling that he's stuck in.

The wine from yesterday has given him a headache. He cures it with black coffee with sugar. He drinks it sitting by the big window in his room, with both feet propped up on the radiator beneath it. Spring is going to blow over in one week at this rate. Manon brings him a croissant when she returns from the bakery, which is very kind, together with the announcement that she has texted with Eliott, which is very incomprehensible. It’s not the fact that they have talked that puzzles him, rather what he is supposed to do with that information. She had to tell him, she says. 

"Next time, you can tell him to go to hell. And when he gets there, keep going." 

"He didn't ask me to ask you to talk to him," she says.

"Good," Lucas says back and turns back to the window.

"He wanted to know how you are."

How considerate. Humanist of the year. Lucas bites into the croissant and occupies himself with brushing away the flakes and crumbles landing on his bare thighs. He wears boxer shorts with multiple grinning Donald Duck's printed on them, the only underwear he could find last night after making a mess of the ones he had on, and a t-shirt with a print of a shark and a surfer that his mom has gotten him. He runs a hand through his hair and clears his throat. "What did you tell him?"

In all honesty, Manon looks no better than him. Her sense of fashion is beyond him. She’s leaning against the wall by the window, sporting a pink one-piece which she insists on wearing around the apartment on weekends.  _The Pink Panther, but make it tacky,_ Lucas has reviewed it and informed her that it's forbidden for adults to wear onesies, but she doesn't value his opinions the way she should.

"Well," she deliberates, pushing off the wall, and saunters into his room. She sits down on the bed, fluffs up a pillow and leans back, gracefully and without spilling a single drop of coffee from her cup. "I told him you've moved in with a gorgeous Brazilian named João. Former stripper, the Magic Mike-kind, now biodynamic food market owner. He makes his own shea butter and grows herbs in the garden patch on the roof and you're considering adoption. Twins," she concludes contently.

Lucas gets stuck mid-motion, with the croissant halfway to his mouth. "Did you, now."

Manon laughs at his expression. "Verbatim. You've asked me to be their godmother which I, after some humble and appropriate hesitation, accepted. Not a dry eye in the house. So, in the grand scheme of things, you're going to be alright."

A smirk spreads across his lips. "Wow. Creative, I'll give you that." 

"Thank you,” she says and sits up again. 

"Have you been practicing how to make jokes?" 

"Oui.” 

"Good. João sounds like a nightmare, though."

"Really?” she says, sounding genuinely bummed-out. “Come on, I really made an effort."

Lucas shakes his head and leans back in the chair. "Guys like that make you feel like they're your woke older brother, or something. Gives me inferiority complex."

"Ex-strippers give you inferiority complex? I'll take him, then," she shrugs and holds out her cup towards him, indicating she wants more coffee.

"And not all Brazilian guys are hot, just because you met one who was," he says.

"The operative word there is _was_ , have you seen what he looks like lately? Thanks, that’s enough."

"Nope,” Lucas says and screws the lid back on the pot. Manon scrolls her phone at such length that he forgets what they were talking about. “He looks the same to me," he says when she shows him a photo of a vaguely familiar guy reclining in a hammock.

"He totally doesn't. He used to be bigger, like buff."

Lucas grimaces. "I don't like buff guys," he says. His sample isn't enormous and by the looks of things, it’s not about to grow anytime soon.

Manon puts her phone away. "I'm sorry for pushing you, yesterday," she says, catching him slightly off guard. 

He wonders briefly why she looks so crestfallen, but realizes that she might just be reflecting him, and looks down at his breakfast again. "Don't worry about it." 

"But ...” Always that ‘but’ with her, it never fails.  “If I sincerely thought that you didn't want to talk to him, I wouldn't have said anything."

Lucas groans quietly and turns halfway away from her. He’s so not in the mood for the direction this conversation is taking. "You think that I should, that's what this is about. Not what I want," he mutters.

Manon shrugs. "I felt like I had to let you know at least, you get that right? That he reached out. It wasn’t to shoot the shit with me, exactly."

"Great, now I know," he snaps.

"You're right." She gets up from the bed. "It's none of my business.” 

Her heart might be in the right place but whatever the wisdom she has to offer, she still seems blind to the fact that none of this concerns what he wants or wishes for. That would require some underlying hope on his behalf, even if it were the last infinitesimal grain of it. But he can’t stand pushing her away again, that just doesn’t make anything better. "Wait. I'm sorry."

Manon stops and shakes her head. "It's okay, Lucas. I get it."

"And I'm sorry for what I said yesterday about you and Charles," he admits. 

Manon stands quietly in the middle of the room, tracing the ear on her mug with a finger. 

Lucas sighs, feeling the scarce, caffeinated energy that he has mustered leaving him in that breath. "Truth is, I'm more whipped than …"

Manon sinks down on the edge of his bed again. "Whipped cream?" she suggests. 

Lucas laughs reluctantly. "Worse."

"Butter, then." 

"Yea, somewhere there."

"Oh, come on, Lucas,” she says gently and puts a hand on his knee. “There's a difference between being whipped and just, truly loving someone."

Lucas leans his elbows against his knees and palms his face. “He called me ... about a hundred times. Last week.” 

“I figured.”

"The only thing I've got left is staying away from him. But ...” He trails off and doesn’t get any further.  

Manon stays quiet, caressing his knee until he puts his hand on hers and starts toying with it absentmindedly. “We're going out tonight. Why don't you join us?” she says.

“What? Er- no, I don’t think so,” Lucas says. “I’m really tired,” he adds when she doesn’t say anything. 

“Alright.” She gets up to leave again. “I mean do what you want, because that's what you're gonna do either way, but you have to get out of your room at some point.” 

“This isn't that point. And I've been going to school,” he reminds her.

"Does school give you life?" she says. "It's just a night out with friends. The three of us. It's a good thing."

He presses his lips together, waiting for another excuse to occur to him. 

“Okay,” she finally says, raising her hands in resignation, and leaves his room.

Lucas looks distractedly at the door after she has left, until his cup nearly slips out of his hand, and then he continues with breakfast. When he's finished, he crawls back into bed.

 

**Saturday April 6. 19.38**

**_the apartment_ // drinking, dancing, dying **

In abandonment, and the unsought loneliness that comes with it, there's a mutable area where the emptiness is indistinguishable from restlessness, that everyone faces at some point. Lucas wakes up after a nap that somehow progressed into a six-hour-siesta. It would have become even longer, unless there had been the sounds from outside his door. He stays under the blanket, unreasonably irritated at it for not being adequately long, thus leaving his feet cold, and at the noise. He frowns and tries to sort through it. 

"Are you good at contouring at all?" he hears Mika say, followed by a muffled response from Manon.  

Lucas stretches from toes to fingertips and sinks back into the sheets which, by now, have a distinctly well-worn feel and smell. The concern that Manon gave off may have gotten to him. Sleeping the days away is starting to get old. His body isn't used to all the rest and complains, in place of the convalescent instincts that should have kicked him out of bed a long time ago.

“Well, if it’s only going to be you and I, I might as well wear this," Manon says and Mika laughs. Somebody should stop that from happening. Then, at least he has amounted to something in his lifetime. 

It’s just a night out with friends. How bad can it be? Plenty bad, but in a good way, if the past is anything to go by. And something has got to change. 

After a couple more minutes of going back and forth, he summons the mental resolve to get up and is immediately confronted by the issue of having to fit the baggy Donald Duck-boxers into his jeans. He wiggles about until the zipper closes, puts on a t-shirt and shuffles out of his room.

“What’s up?” he croaks, squinting against the light.

"She's contouring me."

"Yeah."

"I overheard you," he says. 

Feeling his pointed stare at her, Manon looks up from her roll-up bag of what he assumes is make-up. "What? Oh, this?" she says with a quick glance down her pink self, and continues powdering Mika's face. "My one-piece?" 

"Yeah, that," Lucas says and chuckles. "What's the plan?"

Manon and Mika exchange a look. "The plan is to drown our sorrows and dance while we're at it."

"Shouldn't be too much of a challenge," Manon says, smoothing a large brush over Mika's cheekbones.

"Been known to excel in both," Lucas says from the living room door. 

"I'll make you a deal. You tag along, and I'll change my clothes. Out of respect for you," she offers.

Lucas hums and walks up to the sofa. "I still have a sense of propriety. Can't let people see you like that."

"Aww, the insults. Damn, I've missed them," Mika croons.

Manon smiles and pats the space next to Mika. "Come sit here. I made margs."

"Would you also like a contouring?" Mika asks, pouring Lucas a glass. 

"I'm good. Thanks."

 

**Saturday April 6. 23.19**

**_a club in Belleville_ // the female persuasion**

Of course, "Just the three of us" aren't really just the three of them. It's the three of them, plus a bunch of art school posers and a garden-variety of Paris underground kids in numbers equivalent to the population of a smaller country.

As if he truly just came out of hibernation, all sensory impressions are amplified. It smells of sweat and smoke, the sounds smack and the lights are bright. 

Before he knows it, Lucas loses Mika and Manon to the crowd. They disappear and leave him all to himself among strangers; a sweaty, coiling throng of people, but it bothers him surprisingly little. He looks around for them for a bit, craning his neck above the moving heads around him, searching for Manon and her long, red feather earrings or Mika's messy mop of hair, but it's a lost cause.

He diffuses himself in the mass; his wounded ego takes up less space that way, and the reprieve from himself is the closest to free that he has felt in a while. He belongs to no one and no one belongs to him. He could lean casually against the bar all night without getting bored, maybe that says something about his current standards for entertainment. 

"Something strong," he says to the bartender. "And sweet."

If he wanted company tonight he could probably find ways to arrange it, he thinks while looking around. People love dancers, or they think they do. _Wham-bam-thank you-_... monsieur. Maybe it would be good to inject some juice to the inner scenery; something sensual and dynamic against the backdrop of a lonely mind. But whoever the handpicked, lucky champ would be they would unpreventably, at some point, have to face Lucas' festive Disney-themed undergarments, which doesn't seem fair to anyone. 

The bartender purses his lips, considering his order. Lucas nods indifferently when he picks a bottle from the shelf. He pays cash and before he has brought the glass to his lips the smell sends a jolting, warm wave through him; he doesn't need to taste it to register that he's about to drink his own memories. 

_Eliott's apartment and dusty records on the floor. Kissing in an open window, letting go of everything that had been holding him back. Cinnamon on Eliott's tongue against his skin. Watching him kneel and worship him with his mouth; that had been some voyeuristic gold right there. Sleeping next to him in his bed for the first time. A first time, in an unrivaled league of its own._

He drinks it all of it quickly, letting it trickle down his throat while his head boils, and immediately wants more of that bitter-sweet mindfuck poison-aphrodisiac. If he'd ever have told himself he could be this gone for someone before he met Eliott, he would have dismissed it. That he'd stand by himself, still and staring in an overcrowded bar, wanting to lick and cry into a glass of something that he doesn't even know the name of, because it reminds him of someone? Likely story. 

He gestures to the bartender for another one of the same kind. 

When he catches a glimpse of a familiar face, he's too slow to stop the reflexive double-take, in spite of identifying it somewhere between the first and second glance. Lucille is by the other side of the bar. She stands there like a dark saint, cynical but wise, and casts condoling glances in his direction; he senses them even though he locks his gaze elsewhere as soon as he recognizes her. He empties his second glass of memory-lane in one go and moves away from the bar for good measure. Not that she ever did anything to warrant avoidance, but just being around her makes him feel like her adoptive heartbreak-sibling and like she has known that that's what he would end up being, all along. The latest addition to the troop of people foolish enough to believe that love could be theirs. That Eliott could be theirs.

Escaping outside, he steps past a few scattered people by the tables along the wall, patting his pockets for cigarettes. Those are supposed to be his security tokens tonight, letting him look cool, calm and collected if need be. And need is. He curses when he comes back with nothing; all there is in his pocket is an old receipt. As he lingers indecisively and considers staying outside anyway, a well-manicured hand and an extra-slim cigarette comes into his field of vision. "You want one?" Lucas accepts it tentatively as he flicks his gaze to its owner. Lucille exhales smoke and a long, humming sigh and hands him the lighter.

"Thanks."

"So crowded," she says with a roll of her eyes towards the bar. 

"Yeah." He is completely blank about what to say, so he smokes quietly. It was kind of her to offer him a cigarette but the type of silence that follows wasn't exactly what he had in mind, coming out here for a moment of self-indulgent comfort. 

Unsurprisingly, she didn't search him out for the sheer joy of collegial small-talk, either. "Do you want to- ... I know what happened." she starts. 

There's nothing superior about her ways, but her seemingly endless knowledge of all things Eliott is a big fucking turn-off. Her intentions are impenetrable, but he's certain that he doesn't need her benevolence, nor to be done any favors. 

"I’ve gotta go," he decides quickly, before something like _that's so interesting, dying for an in-depth analysis_? slips out of him.

Lucille doesn’t object, she just nods and continues smoking. "Okay."

"Thanks again." He drops the cigarette to the ground and steps on it on his way back inside.

 

**Sunday April 7. 00.55**

_**a Uber between Belleville and Neuilly/the apartment** _

  
_Lucille: Lucas. I'm sorry to bother you. But really, can we talk?_ _  
_

_Lucas: Not if it’s about Eliott._ _  
_

_Lucille: I’m sorry, but what else would it be about?_

_Lucas: I'm not with him, I've got nothing to do with him._ _  
_

_Lucille: I understand that._

_Lucille: I'm not running Eliott's errands,  here. I just wanted to talk to you_

 

**Sunday April 7. 01.30**

_**the apartment //**_ **a lay-me-down**  
  
"So, that place kind of sucked."

"It was alright," Lucas shrugs with a quiet laugh. "Very clique-y atmosphere though. They're operating in hordes, those art students."

"Fascinating creatures; they instinctively recognize the boundaries of the flock, yet spend most of their time in isolation and only leave it once a year to procreate," Mika elaborates.

"Okay, who's up for a … what's the opposite of a pick-me-up?" Manon asks.

"A lay-me-down?" Lucas suggests. 

Mika laughs. "So saucy? I'm game, though." 

Manon climbs up on a chair and sticks her head into the cubic cabinet on top of the fridge. 

"A knock-me-out, is more like it. All we've got is a bottle of Jack."

"And that's a bad thing because … ?"

"Guess it's not," she shrugs, grabs the bottle and steps down again.

 

**Sunday April 7. 01.42**

_**the apartment** _

_Lucas: What about him then?_ _  
_ _  
_ _Lucille: Let’s meet?_

 

**Sunday April 7. 02.10**

**_the apartment_ // the female variation**

"For example, do you know your partner's steps well enough to dance his part?" 

"What do you mean?" Manon squints at Mika as if he just asked her to solve a quadratic equation backwards. 

"In the pas de deux." Mika sits by the radiator under the window, pointing at Lucas. "Could you partner him, but as the guy? Like, reversed roles." 

"I can’t lift him, are you kidding me?" Manon snickers.

"'Cept the lifting, could you partner him?"

Lucas is sprawled out next to Manon, across from Mika, leaning back against the edge of the sofa. The rug rolls up under them as they progressively sink down on the floor, more lying than sitting by the time the bottle is half empty.

"In which ballet?"

"Well, like Le Corsaire. But it's just an example."

"He doesn’t know the steps," Manon says and pats Lucas' leg. 

"Sitting right here," Lucas reminds them and finishes his glass. "I know it," he says, adding _What_? at their sceptical expressions. "Like, approximately."

"Bring it on then, Médora," Manon says, getting up unsteadily.

"What, now?" asks Lucas, grabbing her leg when she wobbles a little. "We're gonna hurt ourselves."

"Yes, now!" Mika says, clapping his hands. "Go on, show me what you got."

"Fucking madness," Lucas grumbles, but gets up and joins Manon reluctantly on the living room floor. "Which part?"

“The center,” Manon says with conviction.

“Pirouettes? You’re kidding me.”

“I’ve got you. Twirl, baby,” Manon says, making Mika burst into laughter.

“You're watching an excerpt from one of our most beloved classical pieces, performed by students of l’École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris, where the finest idiots of tomorrow are trained."  
  
“God, don’t film, please,” Lucas groans and gets into position in front of Manon, with her right hand in his above his head and their left ones clasped in second position. 

“Balance, balance,” Manon says. “Support yourself a little bit at least.”

"You said, _I’ve got you_ . Don’t stand so close!" 

"I’m not. You're wobbling."

“Shut up,” he grouses and extends his leg, pulls it into passé and spins, producing a series of perfect pirouettes. Stopping proves to be more of a challenge, though, and they end up in a position resembling a panicky wheelbarrow.

“Médora, you’re shitfaced,” Manon groans and giggles, trying to keep him from falling.

“Just wait until people see my stories,” Mika says, eyes on the screen of his phone. “We’ll be touring with this next year.” He watches the video and barks a loud laugh, before making a not insignificant effort to stand up. “Gotta pee.” 

“No more,” Lucas says. “I’m not suicidal, not yet.” He sits down clumsily, in the same spot as before. “Aïe, my head, Manon,” he complains halfheartedly. 

“Damn, you sucked,” she giggles and lays down on the sofa behind him.

“It’s supposed to be a team effort.”

“Always effing up the team efforts,” she quips and draws a low chuckle from Lucas.

“Mika, can you bring a Doliprane for me?” he hollers in the direction of the bathroom, followed by silence. "I think he gave up.”

Manon nods and eyes Lucas quietly.

“What?”

"See, you’re better," she says. 

"I’m drunk. This is nice, though,” he says, blindly stroking her arm behind him.

"I told you. I told you.” Manon sits up and empties the bottle in their glasses. "What have you learned from this?"

"From tonight?"

She clinks her glass to his. "From tonight."

"The female variation of Le corsaire?”

"Please."

"I did, you can't tell me I didnt. I think I would make a stunning Médora.”

"Maybe … the windmill edition," Manon laughs at her own joke and Lucas shoots her a wry look over his shoulder. "It's not what I meant!” she adds, slapping his arm.

"Am I supposed to guess?” Lucas says and turns to look at her, draped over the sofa looking way more gracious than she did as Conrad, a few minutes ago. “Er- okay. I learned that it's lucky for you that you're a girl because you can't dance the guy stuff."

Manon snickers and pinches her lips together. "Getting colder."

"Stop,” Lucas whines. “I don't know, what?”

"That friends - my dude,” she says and nudges his forehead with her thumb. “- are the most important thing. Like, really."

"Yeah,” he says, staring at her, thinking that she’s so smart and right. And, she’s always there but not in the clingy, self-effacing way. Almost like a guy, even though she's a girl. “I need you." 

"You have us. You have me,” she says and rolls over on her side, facing him.

"I need you,” he repeats, and falls silent for a few seconds, before brushing a strand of her hair out of her forehead and behind her ear.   
  



End file.
